


At the Stroke of Twelve

by CertifyyedGewn



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cinderella AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CertifyyedGewn/pseuds/CertifyyedGewn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the only local member of the aristocracy left unwed and unlikely to do so, spends ample time avoiding the complications and inconveniences of the upper class. Unfortunately, her world is turned on its head when her young friend is suddenly engaged to the Prince, her neighborhood is in an uproar, and a man named Thorin comes literally hacking into her life. Bilbo unwittingly stumbles into an unlikely friendship herself, yet there’s more to her mysterious stranger than meets the eye. </p><p>Even more suspicious is his propensity to arrive to her home late and leave in a rush. Just before midnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Apple Away

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking of this for a while and hoping it will turn out well. It could be one of those sprawling fantasy epics or just peter out into a fluffy fic. Who knows?

Miss Bilbo Baggins of Bag End ate a hearty breakfast in her little cottage off Bagshot Row, eyeing the rising sun as she did every morning through her round kitchen window. Yesterday, two pigs had got loose in the east pasture, breaking away from their cowherds and making a mess of the garden just outside Bilbo’s window. She frowned at the trampled verge, partially troubled about her mother’s small patch being slightly damaged in the altercation. Some fifteen minutes into the chase, Bilbo had joined herself, using any excuse to don a pair of trousers and a fitted chemise. The cowherds hadn’t questioned the wardrobe change, from her simple frock, the dress of a respectable Baggin’s daughter, to ‘adventure clothes’ as Bilbo fondly thought of them. She’d been so overjoyed at the chase and consequent capture of the pigs, that even covered in mud and exhausted, she felt refreshed. 

“Reminds you of the old days, Miss?” one of the cowherds had suggested, wiping a great streak of black earth over his forehead while trying to clean the sweat from his eyes. 

Bilbo tenderly remembered such days with her father, Bungo Baggins, a merchant by trade, running about the bush in trousers, waving wooden swords at each other, and slaying dragons in the tool house out back. 

“Dragons are more tricky in real life,” Bungo had told her conspiratorially in their makeshift fort. Bilbo’s small fingers were coated in soft, black earth as she mucked about in the mud at her feet. Her father drew a great dragon in the sand with a nearby branch. “They’re not all a bad lot, you see. We make jokes about slaying them, but if you should ever chance to meet a dragon in real life, you must only be polite to them. Dragons are tarts for politeness. Indeed, all things are. A wild man will never be angry for too long if you are polite to him.”

Bilbo’s tea grew cold in her reminiscing, and the sun waxed in the east, rising above the window’s wooden edge and effectively blinding her. She cleaned her mother’s dishes, removed her soft apron from her shoulders and gathered a wicker basket in her arms. She’d need to replace some of the trampled vegetation beneath the window at the market. 

On a whim, before she set out, Bilbo slipped into the pair of brown breeches, washed and near dry from the previous day. A proper lady would wear a petticoat under their frock, but Bilbo resolved to herself that no one would notice, and if they did, they shouldn’t care either way. 

When Bilbo opened her front door a cold, morning wind swept across Bag End’s facade. It carried the taste of autumn and smoked wood over a fire. As she departed, Bilbo thought the nickname Mad Baggins was a rather uncharitable one, considering all the acquaintances she had about Hobbiton that knew she was as sane as the rest of them. Sure, she possessed her oddities: the manner of her dress, the fact she remained unmarried despite her upper class position, and her penchant for wandering the woods and paths outside the Shire’s narrow borders. Yet Bilbo didn’t see these as fodder for madness but rather a refreshing— though unusual— need for independence. 

Yet her neighbors did not share the sentiment. Other than the hospitable— though decidedly lower in station— Gamgee family across the lane, there was hardly a person who didn’t whisper “Mad Baggins” conspiratorially as she passed. 

Well! Bilbo was used to the relative solitude by now and wasn’t about to shift into respectability to gain the affection of stuffy, old loons like them. And that was all there was to it! 

Huffing on a long, wooden pipe— another unladylike habit picked up from Bungo in her youth— Bilbo paced down her narrow pathway toward her mailbox, basket in hand. Another puff, and she had several letters of business— trade contracts, for Bilbo had inherited her father’s mercantile business as well as his smoking tendencies— and a single, unmarked note. 

Curious, Bilbo opened the unusually soft paper, an eyebrow quirking. Smoke obscured her vision for a moment as the unusually small, scratchy writing swirled into focus. Here is what the letter said:

Bilbo Baggins,  
You’ll forgive the impropriety of introducing myself via letter rather than face to face, but as you and I have never met (and indeed I have no idea of your countenance) this will have to suffice. I have recently heard word of your inquiry of the Northern Rangers about a woman named Belladonna Baggins, formerly Belladonna Took, and have seen the written description of her as well as your request for any information regarding her family connections or past history before she married Bungo Baggins, who I take to be your father. You will perhaps be intrigued to know that I have taken on your inquiry and have found several interesting shards of information that you may be able to piece together.  
If you’d be so kind as to meet me at the Green Dragon Tavern this afternoon— perhaps around tea time— we could discuss the matter further. If you’re sitting at the far table on the western side of the canteen, I shall find you.  
I look forward to making your acquaintance,  
Yours,  
G. 

“G,” Bilbo repeated out loud, baffled and intrigued by the letter and signing initial. She’d posted the inquiry about her mother some four years ago, days after her father’s untimely death, when she’d attempted to contact her mother’s Took relatives to invite to the funeral. 

But at the time, she’d not known any of her mother’s relatives and therefore had had to post to Tookborough’s head of legislation, Fortinbras Took. She still had the reply to her letter in her mother’s trunk, a disturbing and unfortunate final part of Bilbo’s knowledge of her mother. 

My dear Miss Baggins, the letter began in flowing script.  
I hope that this letter finds you in good health and that I can convey my sadness at the unfortunate loss of your Father, and so swiftly after your own mother’s death. It has been some weeks since you first wrote to me, asking about your mother’s relatives and if they could attend the funeral, and I am burdened to only reply with unfortunate news. In the time since I received your letter, I’ve written to several Baggins and Took relations of mine, inquiring about Belladonna, and unfortunately, I can find no record of a young nor grown person of that name. The only record of a Belladonna Took we could find was one several hundred years old, and she was reported to pass long before your mother was born.  
This may come as a shock to you, as it has indeed to all of us, for we Shirelings are a snug folk, yet no one as I’ve met has been able to identify any who can claim relation with any Belladonna Took, turned Baggins. I can offer no further information and can only reply that I’m deeply sorry I haven’t proved more useful to you.  
If I receive any further information, I shall post it to you directly.  
Yours,  
Etc. 

But Bilbo had never received any further reports from Fortinbras nor any Took. After the funeral, she hadn’t the strength of will to think of anything but her grief and subsequent loneliness, but eventually questions began popping up in Bilbo’s mind. Why would no Took claim to know her mother, or better still, if her mother was not in fact a Took, then who were her relations? Any why would her parents tell her otherwise her entire life? 

Bilbo had passed her childhood strangely secluded, contrary to how normal, Shire children grow, with cousins, aunts, uncles and all sorts of distant relations. In fact, young Bilbo hadn’t figured out that her parents were rather solitary until she was much older. And when she inquired about it, they merely waved it off as the fault of their relations for not wanting to make the trek up the Hill to Bag End. 

Bilbo hadn’t thought to question otherwise until it was too late. Peering over her parents’ gravestones, now joined eternally by the roots of a sycamore tree, Bilbo had asked questions she had no hope of answering— that is, until this curious “G” wrote to her. 

Near-trembling with excitement, basket in hand, Bilbo didn’t notice the unusual hubbub in the pathways between Bag End and Hobbiton proper. If she’d had the presence of mind to pay greater attention, she might have noticed several of her neighbors dressed in their finest attire— woollen breeches, tucked high around the ankles, tweed jackets with brass buttons, polished and gleaming in the autumn sun, smart pleated skirts, and flowers placed strategically in every curly-haired lass. 

Bilbo looked a staunch opposite in her everyday apparel— a simple, brown frock she layered against the chilly wind with a maroon coat. Yet it was not in her to compare herself to her neighbors, who waved politely as they passed in a bustle. 

At the market, just opened by the time Bilbo made her mile and a half rounds to the village square, people of all kinds milled in the pleasant flurry of trade. The square was filled with market carts, driven straight from farmer’s and tradesmen’s homes, some larger than others, almost all covered by thick, white cloth to keep the sun at bay. There were more than usual, Bilbo realized. 

Indeed, the entire square was saturated with bodies, old and young, women and men, and it was so tightly packed that Bilbo had to turn sideways and raise her basket above her head to navigate the throng. Beyond the circle of farm goods and vegetable tables, where Bilbo haphazardly bought a basketful of mint and blue forget-me-nots, were several new stands that she didn’t recognize. Upon approach, she realized they were stalls from the men of the Mountain of Erebor, great craftsmen and purveyors of excellent jewelry. 

Dwarves, legend had called them— a squat, burly people with thick, coarse hair on their face, whether male or female, and a weapon in hand. Bilbo had half believed the rumors as a girl, eyeing visitors from the Mountain as if they might cast off the cloak of normalcy and become creatures of her fancy. And yet they were not. The ladies, though taller and broader than Shirefolk, did not sport beards like their men nor were they any stranger in shape or color than many other outsiders. The men were indeed bearded— and that set them apart enough— but they were normal shaped as well. Burlier, perhaps, and covered from head to toe in layers of thick, sturdy clothing in darker tones than the people of Hobbiton preferred. 

Bilbo absently thought it might be nice to browse through their wares, for she heard Erebor jewelry was the finest in the land, and quite a sight to see. 

But before she could sate her curiosity, Bilbo was grabbed, forcibly, by her shoulder and tottered away by Matilda Proudfoot, one of the most proficient of town gossips. She wore her hair all stacked on top of her head like layers of a cake, a great, big flower perched on top all the rest, and there was a great deal of movement in her hands and hips as she waved haphazardly about. Bilbo was so caught staring at the spectacle of her hair that she missed what Matilda had said. 

“I beg your pardon?” she inquired.

“Lady, pay attention!” Matilda admonished, thoroughly put out, though the flush of her cheeks betrayed her glee. A strange sort of trepidation filled Bilbo’s chest at the sight, for when Matilda was in a flutter, there was hardly any good that came from it. 

“I asked if you’d been to the parade yesterday. Erebor’s Founding day was yesterday, you know, and they stretched their progression all the way to the Shire! Even their King attended, with the princes, his nephews. Were you there?”

“No indeed,” Bilbo said, and at Matilda’s shocked gasp, she made sure to don an equally repentant expression. “Unfortunately, a few of my pigs escaped, and I spent the afternoon trying to catch them. Such a pity.” Not really, of course. Bilbo didn’t much prefer crowds; even the bustle of her own neighbors in the square today sent her heart racing.

“Well!” Matilda crowed, cheeks flaming and eyes widening as she prepared to launch into whatever gossip she held today. “You would not believe it, Miss Bilbo! We are all in an uproar! Did you know that just yesterday, the 2nd born Prince, Prince Kili, mind, is determined to marry a mere servant girl by the name of Tauriel.”

Bilbo, who’d been devising some way to escape the entire interlude, suddenly perked up in surprise at Tauriel’s name. She knew that girl! Or rather, girl she was no longer. But she had fond memories of the young, red-headed scamp mucking about in the woods and sometimes happening upon Bilbo as she took her morning walks. They hadn’t spoken much, but she recalled the girl as lovely, an easy smile on her face no matter that she was lowly born.

Unaware of Bilbo’s sudden interest, Matilda continued, “She’s a native of the Shire— one of those foreigners who moved here some years ago. And either way, they say the King has gone into a rage at the match, for Prince Kili was promised to another, some Lady of the Iron Hills to the west, one of their kin I imagine; but now the Prince vows that he will not have her! In fact, I heard yesterday from Mrs. Philps— an old friend and neighbor to the Greenleaf family who employs young Tauriel— that the Prince arrived in person yesterday to spirit his fiancée off to Goodness knows where! And so there have been rumors that he remains here in the Shire somewhere, waiting for a chance to elope! Which is the reason for all these Enmore folk crowding the square. As if they’ll see the pair of them sneaking off! Could you imagine it, Lady!”

Bilbo was growing warm at her neck, not only from the growing heat of the day and the oppression of the masses surrounding her, but also from the candid news! Tauriel, that sweet girl— caught in the labors of royalty! Bilbo’s stomach roiled at the thought. She knew little of the gentry as a whole. Her father, despite being a Lord himself through the labors of his business as a merchant, hadn’t the breeding to know of the hazards of social etiquette and the peculiarities of the upper class, and so he hadn’t impressed to his only child the importance (or lack thereof) in the life of a Lord of Lady. Yet Bilbo could only imagine the tedium— having to stand or sit in a certain fashion, wear tight corsets daily, and practice every word before you said it. It was also lucky that Bilbo lived in as relaxed a society as the Shire offered. She would not have been able to escape the duties of a highborn woman had she been born and raised in Erebor. But Tauriel! Nothing more than a servant girl and caught up with not only the gentry but the highest tier of the social ladder. 

Matilda was so bent on continuing with her theories that she didn’t notice Bilbo’s distress. “Wouldn’t you know it if the whole kingdom hasn’t turned up on our doorstep, eh, Miss Bilbo? There will be even more of them here tomorrow. There’s rumor that the King himself is going to visit Lord Greenleaf and demand to know where his servant girl is along with his nephew, but I got that information from Pansy Cotton, so who knows if that’s true? Miss Bilbo?”

She must have noticed the pale sheen to Bilbo’s cheeks by now, for finally her bright grin faded. “Are you alright, Miss?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Bilbo said softly. “I do think I’ll make a stop at the Green Dragon for a pint. The changing weather has left me a little out of sorts.”

She gave a swift jerk of her head, an awkward bow to be sure, but Matilda didn’t notice as her keen eyes began scanning the crowd for more neighbors, anxious to continue telling her tale. 

Bilbo half trotted, half stumbled away, almost colliding with a pair of bearded merchants she didn’t recognize bearing a great, skinned boar between the two on a stake. She muttered apologies and finally ducked into the Green Dragon, Hobbiton’s only and therefore best-loved tavern. The place was fit to bursting, crowded with men and women alike, some familiar Shirefolk taking a break from the excitement and the sun, while others were obviously of Erebor by their garb and the northern accents they sported. They seemed a curious bunch, eyes roving over Bilbo as she entered, as if trying to discern if she were poor Tauriel dressed in disguise. Bilbo moved quickly from their perusing gazes, sitting at the far end of the large dining area to one of the few empty tables. In her corner, Bilbo had a hard enough time finding an attendant to order a drink, but when finally a glass of cold home brew was placed before her, Bilbo’s heart began to quiet. 

“Anything else, Miss?” said the waiter, a stout young man in loose-fitting trousers with green bracers loose over one shoulder. His smile was buck-toothed, yet he seemed kind. 

It was then that Bilbo remembered her letter. Whoever this G was, she was to meet him around this time, though she was a little early for tea. She informed the boy as much and he offered a short nod of his head before scampering away, presumably to search for her secret informant. 

An odd thing, to only give one’s initial, Bilbo thought to herself as she extracted the letter from her basket. She read over it carefully again, expecting to have to wait quite a while before her meeting, yet the boy returned before she’d gotten half through with the note. 

“Miss Baggins?” he asked uncertainly, and it was then that Bilbo noticed the letter in his hands, to which she raised an uncertain eyebrow. “I’ve been asked to deliver this. Just come from a man on a horse. Looked to be in a terrible hurry.”

He extended his hands, and Bilbo took the offered letter with some uncertainty. The thin piece of parchment was hardly more than a hastily folded card, blank save for the red wax seal on the front. Bilbo opened it, the boy standing before her, shifting one foot to the other. 

Miss Baggins,  
You must find me extremely offensive now, but I must beg your pardon once more. I’m afraid I will not be able to make our agreed appointment, for unexpected business takes me to Erebor with some haste. I’m needed to find a missing person and cannot be detained any longer. If you are not too cross with me, I beg you will accept a parcel I’ve delivered to the Green Dragon in hopes of giving you as much information about your mother as I can without having to keep you waiting to meet with me.  
I hope you will accept it along with my promise that we shall meet soon.  
Yours truly,  
G. 

“This man, who delivered the note,” Bilbo quickly said to the boy at her side. “What did he look like?”

“Well… strange, I’d say.” The boy’s hands rubbed at his forehead as if trying to coax up the memory. “Elderly chap. Big grey beard and a pointy hat. I think his cloak was fine, though he left in a great hurry. He handed me this, Miss, and said to give it to you after you’d read the letter.”

He produced a large, brown case, partially opened by his clumsy reach, and inside Bilbo spied out several folded letters, stacked and arranged by date and containing a great deal of different signatures, all unfamiliar to Bilbo. Her tongue curled over her lips in interest and a nervous trepidation. It all looked to be serious business and therefore probably needed to be handled as quickly as possible and with great care. 

Bilbo closed the box cover and promptly stowed in within her bag but made no attempt to leave the tavern. Quietly and politely, she ordered another tankard of ale, a full pint, if you please, not a half. 

~

There was really no cause to linger, no other business that Bilbo had in town, and with strangers mucking about and underfoot, she would normally have preferred to make a beeline back to Bag End. Yet the unexpected addition of the parcel in her basket was like a weight in her mind that she couldn’t bear to face. Her mother’s true identity could be hidden in those pages, and while it was lovely to think of familial rediscovery in theory, now she felt she wasn’t ready to rewrite her opinion of her own mother in her mind. 

And this “G” fellow, shrouded in mystery and suddenly taken away to find a supposed missing person, could be a trickster, a charlatan. Bilbo meandered in the village square, stewing over her options, until suddenly a flash of light blinded her. She blinked against the abrasive, blue flicker and ducked her head to escape it. Perplexed, she craned her neck past the myriad of moving bodies to discern the source of the light. There, across the square, one of the covered wagons sheltered several glimmering objects, and before she could stop herself, Bilbo’s feet carried her to the stall and the source of the eerie light.

“An odd thing you are, lass,” said the shop owner as she approached. A huge man, he positively towered over Bilbo, with a great bald head shining in the sunlight and a hearty, graying beard jutting from his chin in a proud, wild manner. In his beard were plaited two silver beads, the only decoration he sported, which differed greatly from his kinsmen. Bilbo had heard that the men of Erebor held great stock in their beards, decorating them more preciously than they did their houses. 

“Odd, sir?” Bilbo questioned, glancing down to find the blue jewel that had glimmered in the sun. Up close it was much duller, the color of the sky covered by clouds. Now she saw that it was fixed to the hilt of a short sword, no longer than Trinity’s arm, which though crafted beautifully, did not possess any further embellishment. 

“Odd for a lady of the Shire to approach a weapons’ dealer,” the man stated. His voice boomed across the courtyard, but there was so much talk and confusion that no one else heard. “You country folk often have no use for swords, especially of our make.”

Bilbo smiled wryly and allowed herself to peruse the rest of his shop. He could not plan to do very well amongst Shirefolk with nothing but gauntlets, hairpieces, swords, and several other metal works of various shapes and sizes. “You’ve picked a strange place to sell these,” she commented. “Wouldn’t the Vale be a better place? They’re far enough east to take to fighting each other.”

He shrugged. “You’ll find that a majority of the folk in the crowd today are of Erebor, so I’m doing quite well.”

Bilbo glanced around to the masses around her, confirming his point. Many men were bearded, wearing smart tunics and heavy fabrics in dark colors, contrasting sharply with her neighbors in practical thin layers with no ornamentation. Even the other merchants, set up beside or just out of carts, were of Erebor and wore ornamentation wherever they could manage it. With her sharp eyes, Bilbo noted that the salesman before her, in tan leathers and heavy traveling boots, differed greatly from his kinsmen. She pursed her lips. 

“Is that business with the Prince really bringing them here?”

He nodded gravely. “Aye, lady. I’m surprised the King himself hasn’t made an appearance yet. He thinks you Shirelings have put a curse on his nephew.”

“We’ll have to be more wary,” she said, hiding a smirk by turning her head back to the sword. “Don’t want royalty storming us in the night. Perhaps I should be armed?”

Surprisingly, he did not leap on her obvious inquiry to a sale but kept his peace, and Bilbo thought for all that he’d called her odd, he certainly was appearing to be the strange one. As she paced before his cart, she noted out of the corner of her eye how he didn’t watch her, anxious for her to purchase an item and be off. His attention was elsewhere, scanning the crowd with grave suspicion. She was forced to point at the sword directly. 

“How much? If I am to fight monarchs, I don’t see a finer blade here.”

“Very well,” he replied gruffly as he brought the blade up, though he stopped before wrapping it, as if looking at it for the first time. “A fine blade, miss. Excellently crafted. Though, I must tell you, it’s little more than a letter opener.”

She shrugged. “Good enough to fight off kings?”

Finally he seemed to meet her in the eye and a smile creased his stoic face into cheery wrinkles. “Aye, lady. Woe to any monarchs who meet this blade.”

She grinned and waited for him to wrap it.

~

Basket much heavier with items than when she’d left, Bilbo walked slowly back to her cottage along the less-traveled western path, admiring the Shire’s natural, green beauty. The hills swelled in waves, uneven curves obstructed by the occasional house, some perched atop a hill and others dug straight into the side. Her neighbors bustled and waved hurriedly at her while they passed, dressed in their Sunday finest, as if indeed the Prince or the King himself might stop by. 

Bilbo huffed, her mind turning over Tauriel once more. The poor girl didn’t like crowds as much as she did and certainly never liked to kick up so great a fuss. She thought about what she could do to assist the girl, but if she was indeed in hiding as Matilda had hinted, there would be no way she could contact her. Distraught, Bilbo deviated from the path and took a shortcut through the several leagues of orchards her father had owned. With autumn approaching and the air cooling delightfully, some apples were already beginning to ripen. A few orange and red pieces had fallen to the forest floor, hidden beneath the tumble of brown leaves. Taken in by the solitude, Bilbo raised her dress above her hips and over her head, leaving a loose-fitting chemise and her trousers underneath.

She sighed in contentment, free of the confines of the gown, utterly still, when the distinct clang of a blade hit her ears, startling her. Birds flew from their nests at the sound, cawing in alarm. Bilbo herself placed a hand over her heart and took several, careful steps forward. The orchards should be deserted before the harvest. Bilbo wouldn’t hire hands until late September and only then were strangers allowed on her land. Suspicious and suddenly on edge, Bilbo tiptoed through the thickening trees and peered behind the lines of light-colored bark toward the noise. 

The shrubbery thinned as she craned her head around. Another clang echoed through the brush, followed by an angry oath. Leaves scattered in the rush of a figure in the distance, flowing about him in a gust produced by the viciousness of his sword and the fury of his feet moving into the earth. The sword slashed into the tree, cutting it to the quick and nearly sticking into the thick bark. The man placed his foot against the wood and heaved mightily with a curse.

If Bilbo were truly a noblewoman, she might have blushed at the foul language. The man roared like a bear, withdrawing his sword from the wood and stumbling back from the exertion. He heaved, weary, and red-faced both from the exertion and obvious rage building in his shoulders. Bilbo could see it fester inside his chest until finally he struck again, quick like an adder. His long, dark hair flung around his shoulders in sweat-dampened locks, black save for a few hints of gray around the edges. His well-trimmed beard was plaited and split into short braids at his chin, where it was not frayed and soaked in sweat, confirming Bilbo’s suspicions that he was a man of Erebor. His garb was finely made, a blue tunic and richly embellished coat, though now both were soaked through with perspiration. On his arms were silver gauntlets, the exact shade as the salt and pepper strands of his hair. The sword in his hands was perhaps the largest Bilbo had ever seen. It looked so heavy that she wondered how the man could viciously swing it so hard at a poor apple tree without toppling over from the weight. 

Bilbo’s eyes flicked from that great sword to the poor apple tree, slumped in defeat and beyond repair. Its poor branches were half settled into the dry leaves on the ground, like arms laid down in surrender. Yet the Erebor man would not cease his attack, and so the tree wilted beneath the blows. Bilbo put a hand to her mouth, feeling a well of fear and rage in the pit of her stomach, and glared daggers at the man. Despite all his finery and obvious standing, he continued to bombard the tree with fearsome, hacking strokes, uncaring that it didn’t belong to him! 

Bilbo suddenly had a flash of her father’s words about politeness, words that she had found rather easy to live by in a sleepy, country village with her house to herself and her garden and her small adventures of loose pigs. Yet even Bilbo Baggin’s long-suffering contentedness and politeness didn’t have the power to stifle the rage welling up inside her as she watched some nobleman hack mercilessly into her mother’s apple trees on her father’s land. 

And so Bilbo’s temper burst into flames, her nostrils flared, her eyes widened, and before she realized it, she was stooping to pick up half-rotten apples in her hands, and with a great roar, she threw one squarely at the back of the man’s head. 

It struck with a resounding thud, and the man stopped.


	2. Crossing Borders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a discombobulating romp through the village, Bilbo made her way home and stopped when she met a suspicious character, defiling her poor orchard.

Chapter 2

Bilbo’s temper often landed her into trouble. She could recall with startling clarity the day she openly chastised Meredith Bracegirdle, a cocksure six-year old with enough sway over the neighborhood children to pronounce herself queen of a very small empire. Bilbo had scolded the miniature Lady with regards to her poor treatment to an unfortunate frog. 

The air had been stiflingly warm in mid summer, the sun high and heavy. Most people had fled indoors or to the shade, yet the children, all clumped together and determined to play outside no matter the heat, had congregated in Mrs. Bracegirdle’s sizable garden, which had an open patch of field nearby to romp in. Bilbo could still recall the feeling of the heated grass under her bare feet, the sweat gathering at her neck, the smell of freshly trimmed roses, and the vague sense of worry in her heart. Her father was leaving that very afternoon for some far off land to sell his wares, and he could not take her. She had to be home directly at teatime to see him off, but could stop and play if she liked. 

It was then that Bilbo spied Meredith and her cronies, six or seven other young lads and lasses, playing with a frog and laughing as it tried to escape. Bilbo approached cautiously just in time for them to pull it cruelly from one end, breaking its legs, and pierce it through the middle.

“Hold on!” Bilbo cried, her face red hot with wrath as she eyed the dead, dangling creature at the end of Meredith’s long, pointy stick. The frog’s legs were straightened fully now, and in a moment its dead body was crudely clothed in fabric bits, resembling a dress. Upon its lolling head, a handful of straw was meant to be hair. 

Meredith flushed at Bilbo’s censure. “What, Baggins? Are you upset because the toad’s prettier than you are?” And with a laugh, she flung the stick at Bilbo. The poor frog dislodged from the pole, flying across the short space of Mrs. Bracegirdle’s garden and into Bilbo’s face. She cried out in rage and no small amount of panic, flinging the sticky frog off her. And without further ado, she roared and threw herself at Meredith, tackling her to the dirt. 

Bilbo’s hands were a rush, pulling at Meredith’s curls, twisting them in her small fingers. She bit and slapped the girl, who cried out for her friends to save her from Bilbo’s blows, and it took four of them to pull her off. 

“How dare you!” Meredith screamed, tears streaking down her face. She looked wretched and fled back into the house. Bilbo thought she was gone for good, but she came back in another moment, a long pair of scissors in her hands. 

“Strike me like a boy, and I’ll make you look like one!”

Panic seized Bilbo. She squirmed against the other children and begged for mercy, but they held her down, laughing, as Meredith took the scissors and snipped off Bilbo’s long, curling hair almost to the root. By the time they were done, Bilbo was too weak to fight anymore, and her hair lay in brown pools at her feet, soft and blowing away with a gust of hot wind. 

She cried when they released her, her neck bare, her head lighter, and she didn’t have the heart to look them in the eye as they laughed at her. Turning her head away, burning in agony, she shot like an arrow from their grasp and bolted home. 

She wanted to run to her father and hold him and cry into his arms, but the second she approached Bag End, she saw the horse and cart, ready to bear him off on his journey, and stowed herself in a nearby bush, too ashamed to face him. 

“You should go,” Bilbo heard her mother say to Bungo as they both walked from Bag End’s green door down the path. “Bilbo is off playing. She’ll be back too late for you to wait.”

Bungo’s brow furrowed, as it often did when he was deep in thought. “It’s not like her to be late. What if something happened?”

“Well, you couldn’t help with it anyway.” Belladonna smiled cheekily at her husband and gave him a pinch to his jacket. “I will miss you, sweet.” And she leaned up to give him a long, slow kiss. 

“I wish I could say goodbye to Bilbo,” he murmured when they separated and he continued to the cart. 

Bilbo wanted to leap from the bush and run to hug him, and tears spilled freely from her eyes as she watched him jump onto the cart. “You’ll give her my love, won’t you?” he called to Belladonna. “She’ll be upset she missed me.”

And before she could decide whether or not to reveal her shame, he was gone, plotting down the road. The sound of his pony’s hooves faded into the distance, and Bilbo sobbed in earnest. 

“Come here, darling.” She heard her mother before she felt the quick pull of her mother’s arms to her chest, and she held Bilbo until she’d cried it out. “It’s alright, sweetheart. He’ll return. And by then, your hair will have grown.”

Bungo did return in a few weeks, but Bilbo didn’t forget what her temper had cost her. 

Well, until now.

Ripe with indignation, Bilbo bent and picked up another apple, flinging it at the shocked though armed man. 

“How dare you deface my father’s property?! That tree was over a hundred years old before you felled it!” 

The man had hardly a moment to round on her before the apple she’d thrown knocked him soundly in the teeth. His head snapped back; he staggered. Bilbo could have cheered at her remarkable aim, but instead she bent to throw another. Yet as it sped, hurtling toward his face again, he seemed to regain himself. With a roar of his own, he raised his sword and cut the hurtling fruit in two.

“Mahal!” he bellowed, face redder than the apple he’d decimated. Bilbo vaguely recognized the guttural Erebor word curling off his lips like a curse. “You— you base, foolhardy peasant!”

“Peasant!” Bilbo hollered back, affronted. “Better that than a two-bit vandal and a trespasser!” At each enunciated word, she flung more apples, which he dodged. 

“Woman— an apple nearly pegged his face. “Stop it! You horrible creature!”

He hefted his sword, and Bilbo squeaked in sudden terror, using the collapsed tree as a barrier between them. This put her adversary at a decided disadvantage, for her long distance, red torpedoes could strike him, while his sword couldn’t hope to touch her. Bilbo knew when he discovered this fact, for his face darkened a shade, almost to purple, and he was so angry that she imagined smoke and flame pouring out of his ears. He stood like a dragon, panting, and finally he swung his sword above his head and buried it into the tree, cracking the poor thing nearly in two. 

“Oh!” Bilbo cried out, enraged, and the man actually smiled at her. “That’s another apple to the face!” And true to her word, her next projectile struck true, right to his cheek. When he turned toward her again, all the mirth was gone, and brown apple bits clung to his face. 

“Strike again, and you’ll regret it,” he said, his voice low and threatening. 

Bilbo couldn’t rise to his calmness. Her voice sounded shrill even to her own ears. “And you— you had better not touch the tree again! You’ve no right to be in these woods!”

“Of course I have the right, you thing!” he shouted back. “I see no borders here! No sign or fence stating I couldn’t come, and the lands surrounding Erebor belong to the king! I can be here as I like!” And as if to prove his point, he kicked the poor apple tree, leaving it wavering. That brought some of the smug joy back to his face.

Bilbo’s eyes widened; she flushed. 

Erebor! Of all the absurdity! Naturally, one of their gentry would assume themselves so important as to defile private property and think it all belonged to them! True enough, the entire Shire used to belong to Erebor until King Durin I, hundreds of years ago, allowed small country folk from the west to settle near the mountain. In exchange for growing Erebor’s crops, the westerners were allowed to settle and populate The Shire as they saw fit. And not thirty years ago, Bilbo’s father had bought these orchards from the King himself for a very fair price. In all truthfulness Shirefolk and those of Erebor got along rather well, though their interests rarely crossed. Until today of course— princes and merchants and also poor Tauriel, together in one small village!

Nevertheless Bilbo felt the back of her neck prickle, her face heating in absolute wrath. “King’s lands, you say? You’re a half mile south for that!” She had no other apples nearby to throw, but in her basket, hidden from view by a stray bit of cotton, the sword she’d bought lay in wait. 

She flung her basket down the same moment she drew the blade, brandishing it against him. It was so heavy in her arm that she had to fight to keep it aloft, but her anger, coupled with the satisfaction of seeing the man so surprised by her sudden weapon, kept it steady in her palm. She knew hardly anything of swordplay, but he wouldn’t know that just by glancing at her. Hopefully.

Yet instead of furthering his anger, he stared, bug-eyed, back at her. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in a whisper. 

“S-should I?” His sudden bewilderment and wonder made her uneasy. “Are there wanted posters of you I hadn’t seen yet? You’ll forgive me if I’m not acquainted with the faces of criminals.”

“I’m no criminal! I live in the mountain!” And to illustrate, he pointed back to the northeast, where he must have come. “And I’ll have you know, the surrounding lands belong to the King and no others. I’m permitted to do as I please here.”

“I’ve told you, these are not the King’s lands. You see that marker there?” Bilbo pointed to a wide, tall oak amongst the apple trees. Atop it, the King’s white flag blew from a particularly long branch. “It’s a borderline— a mark for the next twenty acres of land that belong to my father— lands that were bought from King Thrain years ago.” Smugly, she added, “As I said: A half. Mile. South.”

The man’s face was a thunderstorm, and his coloring darkened like a bruised fruit.

Bilbo continued matter of factly. “And you’ll hardly do any better trying to deface the King’s trees. They can kill you for that sort of thing, and even if I’d like recompense for your defacing my father’s lands, I won’t kill you for it. A good lashing and twenty gold should do it.” The last bit she added, of course, for humor, for she could see he was simply exploding inside, red-faced and suddenly taciturn. 

She grinned and lowered her sword, the battle won.

The man, however, seemed beside himself, probably with renewed anger but Bilbo could not tell. “Your father’s name, woman?” he demanded.

“Bungo Baggins of Bag End. Look, I was just—”

But he cursed under his breath in the Erebor tongue, and without so much as a by your leave, he turned and curtly strode away. 

“Oh, hold on!” Bilbo called after him, her humor turning to indignation. “Excuse me!”

Far off in the trees, she saw a black horse obediently waiting for its master. The mighty steed nickered as the man approached and impatiently stomped its great hooves. With a grunt and a heave, he swung up into the saddle, his grand mane of hair flinging behind him. The man didn’t turn around or even glance in her direction again. With a great shout, he kicked the horse into a gallop and was gone. 

“Excuse—” But Bilbo couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “Of all the— that ridiculous, indignant, putrid— Oh!” She stomped her feet, vowing to herself that if she ever saw him again, she’d bean him soundly over the head with her sword if need be! Now, though, she could only stoop to pick up her basket, venomously muttering to herself about the indecency of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've recently taken to listening to a slow Cello music, and it might have had something to do with the horrible amount of time I've taken to post this second chapter. I'll post the third soon and hopefully stop leaving it at such unhappy points of tension. (Slight as they may be)
> 
> Also, I just want to clarify, that my story has been inspired (though FAR from being the same as) by "Burned to a Cinder," another Bagginshield fic by ferettbaby that's a Cinderella AU. It's lovely, if you haven't read it. Just wanted to give credit where credit is due!


	3. Waning Tempers

Chapter 3  
Waning Tempers

Her enjoyable walk through the grove had been cut short— and by that man’s sword, so less! So Bilbo took a shortcut straight back to Bag End. Shoving open the forest green door with the combined effort of her hand and foot, she wasn’t surprised when the wood creaked in protest and smashed into the side of the wall. 

“Miss Baggins?” came a voice from the kitchen, and Bilbo fought to keep her sigh inaudible. 

Bell Gamgee was a delightful woman and a skilled housekeeper, and Bilbo had no reason to take her temper out on her. And yet…

She stormed down the narrow corridor, a pathway her father had fondly called the Oak Hall, toward the Smoking Room, dropping her basket forcefully somewhere along the way. “Infuriating!” she hissed to herself. In the smoking room, she hastily arranged some left out books from last night. Normally, the charming odor of Old Toby, and the rustic feel of the books would soothe her, but Bilbo’s temper found no peace, and she handled the books poorly, slamming them onto the shelves. Anything to keep her hands busy and her mouth closed. 

“Miss?” came the call again. Bilbo gritted her teeth. 

“Yes?”

“Oh, so that is you, Miss. Back from the market?”

Bilbo retreated farther into the house, bare feet padding on the cool, wood floors. Bag End followed the curve of the Hill toward the east instead of venturing farther back like a proper tunnel. Bungo Baggins had designed the comforting home to be shallow and wide rather than long and difficult. One could reach any room through a number of doorways, each of which lead through commonly used corridors. At the center of the house, a wide-stretching atrium allowed light to spill into the pathways when the sun was high, but rain was approaching, and Bag End was dark. 

“Miss?” Bell called again through the halls. 

“Nothing, nothing!” Bilbo snapped, pacing from the smoking room into the pantry. Her hopes were that Bell would discern her bad mood and leave her be to calm herself with the afternoon tea, which she’d missed waiting for that “G” fellow to show himself. And even that had ended poorly!

“Ridiculous!” Bilbo spat and stood angrily in her pantry, looking at nothing in particular but shaking like a leaf. She thanked the fates that her parents had not insisted she enter high society if a man obviously without manners nor decorum was the representative of the gentry. To deface another’s property without so much as an apology, indeed! 

“Abominable!” she shouted as she placed the kettle over the stove. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Bell stood at a distance, giving her a strange look. “Miss?”

Bilbo turned with a great snapping motion, like a snake poised to attack, and Bell took a clear leap back. 

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said, rubbing her hands over her eyes. “I lost my temper today, and it’s taking me awhile to get it back.”

“Ah.” Bell wisely decided it was time she cleaned the parlor and left Bilbo alone in the kitchen. 

She fussed incessantly over the tea and in the end let it steep for too long, but the strength didn’t bother her today. Her mind was like a spinning wheel, turning over her interaction with the man over and over again, and at length she decided she was proud of how she confronted him, especially informing him that he was in the wrong space of land in the first place. King’s lands, indeed! The idea!

The thought brought Bilbo enough comfort to clean the kitchen in relative peace, though she noted how Bell took great care not to disturb her as she relaxed in the smoking room and didn’t take a supper. She felt like some kind of dragon, sitting alone and brooding amongst the smoke from her pipe and the heat of the fire from the hearth. But the idea didn’t vex her too much. Bilbo enjoyed her solitude and valued the austere collection of books around her. If she was considered a dragon to protect her things, so much the better. No one ever got away with bothering dragons. 

That night, after the front door closed with a distant thud — a sign that Bell had vacated the premises — Bilbo decided it was time for bed. She felt sick with how much she’d been puzzling over her strange interactions that day and felt like a good night’s sleep might alleviate the dull throb in her head. Just as she was washing up her face in readiness for bed, looking into her own reflection, she remembered the man’s face. It popped up so clearly in her mind, as if she were seeing it in reality. He’d been slack-jawed, as red as a beet, and heaving, when she’d pointed out the borders to her lands. She froze, puzzling, beads of water dribbling into her wash basin. He’d looked… not affronted nor angry, now that she thought about it. He’d looked… 

Bilbo burst into loud peals of laughter. Her high voice echoed all throughout the house, and if Bell had been around, she surely would have come crashing in. The more she thought of it, the more she laughed. He’d been embarrassed not angry! Ashamed! Mortified as a schoolboy who hadn’t learned his numbers in time for a test! Oh, now that she could see him in her mind’s eye, it was all too clear! To overstep one’s borders certainly is a great misstep, especially for such a proud, disagreeable fellow. Ha! the clot must feel miserable.

She laughed and laughed at his expense, for he’d been very rude and abrupt about it, until she had to lean against her dressing table for support. Her chest felt fit to burst. What a simpleton! And to think he’d run off, tail between his legs! Oh, yes, she’d cherish that thought, now that she had the frame of mind to interpret it correctly. 

She went to bed that night, giggling and squirming into her pillows like a little girl.

The thought kept Bilbo in fits of laughter for the night and far into the next day. The afternoon sun beat down on Bilbo’s neck as she planted a fresh patch of forget-me-nots, and still she had to keep her guffaws to herself. When the farmhands asked what had her in such humor, she could only wave them off, feeling too guilty to explain but not too guilty to laugh at the poor man’s expense. 

“Well, it’s good to see you’re in better humor than yesterday, Miss,” Bell had pronounced at lunchtime. “Why I never saw you in such a state, not since you were a young ‘un, but it seems to have all cleared itself up.”

“Oh no,” Bilbo said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like a fool, “but I’m at least amused instead of angered by it.”

“Just as well, Miss. Here’s another thing, by the way. The post has come for you.” Bell withdrew several folded cards from her pockets— letters of business about the trade routes, no doubt, and Bilbo took them into the parlor for inspection, Bell at her heels. 

“Trade’s been good, Miss?” 

“Well enough,” she offered noncommittally. There had been huge storms washing over the south that had put several of her caravans on an unscheduled halt, one letter said. The head merchant had written to apologize for the delay and a promise to resume their journey when the storms let up. Bilbo hurriedly penned a reply and sealed it. Bell picked it up when she was finished. 

“What’s this?” the caretaker asked. 

Bilbo turned to watch the older woman hefting Bilbo’s basket from yesterday, still filled with the parcel she’d received at The Green Dragon as well as her sword. Naturally Bell saw the shimmering piece of steel first and let out a breath. 

“You’ve been acting odd of late, Miss. What are you going to do with this? Goad the cows?”

“Fight off noblemen,” Bilbo muttered as she sifted through more paperwork. 

“And what of these?” She fussed over the parcel, opening the side flap. “Miss, what of—”

“Leave those,” Bilbo said, quickly taking them from Bell’s hands. She hadn’t looked in their direction intentionally, hoping that her heart would calm into rash thought before she addressed them. But Bell’s rummaging had unearthed several sheets, and Bilbo noticed that they weren’t written in a language she’d ever seen before. 

“Odd,” she said quietly to herself. 

“Those look like scribbles,” Bell said from over her shoulder. Bilbo’s eyes drifted toward her ceiling. 

“Yes, thank you, Bell. Isn’t there something you should be carrying on with?”

“Are you going to post those letters, Miss?”

Bilbo handed her the stack of replies. 

“Why, thank ye, Miss,” the housekeeper said with a snarky smile and brushed out of the room. 

Miffed, Bilbo returned to the parcel. “Caretakers and their lack of manners. Goodness, she’ll have me usurped in no time.” She said it loud enough for Bell to hear as she retreated and heard her head maid’s answering scoff with a smile of her own. Bell might be a little nosy, but she was more invaluable than Bilbo could say. 

Her attention diverted back to the papers before her, Bilbo sifted through the stacks of old parchment. There were several manuscripts of some kind, two hand-drawn maps, and a single, drawn landscape of some wooded land— all in the same strange language. Finally at the bottom of the stack, Bilbo saw a tiny note, a mere annotation at the bottom of another, larger page, but put in the common tongue. 

“Sorry for the inconvenience. I hadn’t time to inscribe the meanings of the pages onto paper. If you journey into Erebor, you will find a translator amongst the educated class at very little cost. Ensure it is someone you trust.

-G.”

Bilbo huffed indignantly. Of all the indecent, horrible things to do! “G” would have a lot to answer for! Providing her with a stack of so-called information about her mother but with no way of reading it! 

She slammed the pages shut and set them on the corner of her desk, though as far away as she could so she didn’t have to glance at it. If not for the happy memory of the stranger’s embarrassed face yesterday, Bilbo felt her entire afternoon would be ruined. 

That evening, as she was settling down to a cup of tea after all the servants and stable hands had gone home, she found herself still a little vexed at it as she poured over one of her father’s oldest maps. This one she’d inherited from a collection he’d kept in a storehouse to the north, one of his many stopping places when he checked his trade caravans. She’d framed it several years ago to prevent further damage to the old, parchment, which was already fraying at the edges. Her father had once detailed several trade routes in ink along well-used paths. He had several caravans which Bilbo had inherited at his death, two through the Greenlands, one that traveled straight through Erebor and farther north, and another, which lead southeast, a land that Bilbo had little experience with. As a girl, her father had taken her on many journeys across the countryside, but never too far east. 

“’Tis a dangerous land, that way,” he’d said with false graveness. “Full of nasty men.”

“Really?” she’d asked. 

“No, dear.” He’s laughed. “Though the roads are rougher, and each time I go, my carriage fails in some way, and I don’t want to put you through so much inconvenience.”

Whether he was joking about that she’d never know, but nevertheless, Bilbo had never ventured very far south or east, and so she looked at the maps, committing the foreign-sounding names of mountains and cities to memory. One never knew when approximate knowledge of landmarks might come in handy.

“Loth— hmm.” She couldn’t make out the name of a tiny forest located just on the southern border of the country. The name looked to be written not in ink but in pencil and in her father’s writing. She retrieved a magnifying glass and looked closer. “Lothlorien,” she said aloud. Pretty name, though utterly foreign. She made a note in a small, empty book on the table beside her, where her tea lay steaming, to remember to look up the name later. 

That was when a resounding knock at the door startled her. 

“Bell?” Bilbo called. It wasn’t odd for the woman to have forgotten something, though she hardly had cause to knock. Bilbo often forgot to lock the door if Bell didn’t, and her caretaker normally strolled in without preamble. The knock sounded again, louder, and she got to her feet. The hallways of Bag End were almost completely dark. Bilbo hadn’t withdrawn from the smoking room for hours, as was her routine on nights she fell in with her maps, so none of the candles in the corridors were lit. Night had fallen some hours ago, and heavy clouds smothered the moon’s light. She heard a roll of thunder in the distance, echoing through her empty halls, and thought that rain couldn’t be far off.

Wary for some unknown reason, Bilbo padded down the hallway, approaching her round, wooden door. The knock came again. Bilbo leaned, curious, toward the window, and thought it was a little too late to be taking visitors. She could see no figure at first, and so she inclined her head and spread the window drapes farther open to afford a better look. A tall someone stood at the door, hunched against a harsh gale from outside. Bilbo chewed her lip for a moment, indecisive as to whether she ought to open up or not, but the knock struck again and without thinking she grasped the handle and flung the door wide.

Silhouetted against the clouds behind him, the figure towered above her, a live gargoyle hunched against the wind. Behind him the trees bent and moaned in the hearty gales, and Bilbo had to hold her hair down to keep it from her eyes. 

“You,” she said at last into the night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. Adventure is to come as Bilbo opens her door! (that sounds so boring)


	4. A Decent Sort

Chapter 4  
A Decent Sort

In that second, as if pre-ordained, a gust of wind blew so hard that Bilbo had to cover her face against the onslaught and so missed her visitor’s face. When it died down, her mouth fell open of its own accord, for there was the object of her laughter all day. In her memory, she had only recalled his red, embarrassed face and had somehow forgotten his imposing height. Now the generous spread of his shoulders was further emphasized by a broad, gray tunic and a cloak overtop. His long hair was pulled back and gave full view of an aristocratic nose, severe cheekbones, and those sharp, blue eyes. She’d remembered the pomp and circumstance in his clothing as a foil to his chastised expression, but now he was dressed simply and without embellishment— a direct compliment to his guarded countenance. 

Bilbo felt so startled that she nearly fell back in her doorway and forgot she wasn’t properly dressed to receive visitors. In her father’s trousers once more and only in a very thin, cream chemise, she must look like a vagabond!

“Oh, um— what— goodness,” she stammered, and then all at once she remembered his cherry red face from yesterday and clamped a hand over her mouth to prevent from laughing. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you, and to come so late,” he said quickly. “I lost my way. Twice actually. I’m not— sorry— not good with... directions.”

The admission, delivered in quiet earnest, could have sent Bilbo into guffaws, but her hand held firm over her lips. Instead she nodded furiously as if to appease him. He looked awful, like a man beaten to the end of his patience. Bilbo saw a thin line of sweat glisten on his forehead, and the hem of his tunic was stained black with mud.

“May I speak to your father?” he asked at length, when she seemed unable to respond. 

“Oh, my—”

A great boom of thunder startled Bilbo. The hand at her mouth clapped it over her ears. Similarly, the man ducked his head, as if dodging a strike, and stepped closer into the doorway. It was lucky that he did. With a groaning roll, the clouds opened up, and a harsh stream of water poured from the sky. The slight overhang did little to keep out the windswept rain.

“That was abrupt,” Bilbo said to herself, hands still over her ears. She saw that the man had said something and removed them. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is your father—”

The rain poured harder, drowning out the rest of his request. 

“I cannot hear you, sir! Oh, here!” She grabbed him forcibly by the arm and with a great tug, pulled him over the threshold and into the house. Another blast of wind sent the door slamming shut at his heels, and all at once they were alone, in the dark, both dripping wet. 

“Well,” Bilbo said into the darkness. Her eyes hadn’t quite adjusted yet, and she could only see the shadow of the man as he leaked water on her floor. “You’re soaking!” 

“It nothing,” he tried to say.

Dashing out of the entrance hall, Bilbo quickly retrieved several towels from the linen closet, one for herself and two for him— there seemed to be so much of him that he might need it— and returned to find him in the exact place she’d left him. A smirking part of her suspected he hadn’t moved an inch. 

“Here you are.” She handed him the pair of towels, which he grasped with a near silent ‘thank you’ and waited for her eyes to adjust as she watched him. “Must be the tail end of the summer storms,” she mused. “I was wondering when the rain would begin.” 

As she spoke, she watched him take intricately braided plaits of his hair, squeezing each with utmost care into the towel, and then self consciously patting away at the damp hair before tossing it onto his shoulder. She noted that his hair possessed some decoration, like so many of his kinsmen. Ornate beads glittered in the soft light— two silver ones where they clasped his twin braids together on either side of his head. At the end of his ponytail another, larger bead held a majority of the damp curls into place, and almost hidden beneath his left ear, a single blue and white bead shone for just a moment before hiding again behind his black curtain of hair. For a moment, she found it mesmerizing and wondered at the patient care he took.

“Are you cold?” she asked, clearing her throat. He shook his head but Bilbo could see a slight tremble to his hands, even in the dark. “You’ll be needing some tea.” 

“No, please,” he cut her off. “I know I have come late, but I hope I might speak with your father as quickly as possible.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat at the unexpected twinge in her heart. “I’m sorry to say you won’t be able to speak with my father.” 

“Is he away?” He glanced around her foyer and down the hall into the parlor, finding it as dark as the entryway. “Goodness, is there no one here?”

“I prefer to be alone. Come along,” she said, leading him toward the back room, where Bilbo had been studying before. “And no, my father is not away. He passed two years ago, just after my mother.” It felt strange to say it aloud. All her neighbors knew her parents were dead so there was little reason to remind them. She actually couldn’t recall ever telling anyone of her parent’s passing. She cleared her throat, pushing down the odd feeling. “A few of my cousins once lived here as well, but they’re already married and settled. Up the mountain, actually.”

“So you’re alone here?” he asked, alarmed and glancing around for any sort of other person. 

“Yes, sorry. Had I known you were coming, I would have asked Bell to stay.”

“But yesterday, you declared these lands belonged to your father.”

“A force of habit,” Bilbo murmured. “For some reason, it feels odd to say the estate belongs to me. Though it does. I’m the sole owner. Come along now. You still look like a drowned rat.”

He trailed behind her, practically on top of her heels, and she heard his clothing rustle as he turned this way and that, either to get a better look at her house or to discern if she was truly alone, she didn’t know. At length, the hum of his deep voice sounded behind her. “Then— then who is Bilbo Baggins?” 

“You’ve found out my name?” Bilbo asked, raising her eyebrows. 

“It _is_ you then? In searching for the owner of the groves, I was told the owner of the house was named Bilbo. That’s you, not your father?”

“My father was Bungo Baggins.”

He looked so perplexed that even in the darkness she could see his furrowed brow. She quietly chuckled to herself. “It’s an odd name for a lady, yes? Bilbo.”

“Well yes! I mean—”

Bilbo barked out a laugh. “It’s actually a funny story, though.” 

He turned to her once they reached the fireplace. Bilbo’s tea was cooling on a small table next to her father’s armchair, where her books and maps still lay scattered. 

“But it is to you that I must repay,” he said gravely. “I’d no money to compensate your father at the time for the damage to your tree, but I’ve brought some tonight.”

He withdrew a silver sac, jingling and jangling with coin inside. It looked to be a fair sum, certainly worth more than any tree monetarily wise.

“Money,” Bilbo repeated disdainfully. “I assure you, that won’t be necessary. It was just a tree and hardly the biggest in the grove, anyway.”

“Nevertheless,” he pressed. “I must be allowed to repay you. I was angry. My duties— I was not—”

“You haven’t had tea!” she interrupted quickly.

“No, Miss—”

But Bilbo had already stomped back to the kitchen, grabbing her kettle and filling it before he could get a word in edgewise. Even when she returned to find him standing awkwardly beside the fire, she would not let him protest to her fixing him some tealeaves and placing the kettle near the flames. She’d hoped that her obvious dislike of the subject of money would make him drop it. Certainly any Shire inhabitant would catch her obvious dismissal of the conversation.

“I must insist,” he said, and Bilbo rolled her eyes and huffed. “I did you a disservice, and I intent to rectify it.”

“Not with money you’re not.” 

“Miss Baggins—”

“None of that,” she instructed. “Have a seat. Lost twice and arrived this late and in the rain no less. You must be _tired_.” She flexed the last word. Removing a score of disheveled maps from the opposing chair, she offered him a seat with a wave. “Look, I’m not taking payment for the tree. A simple apology will suffice.” 

He sat stiffly as instructed. “I’m afraid I must… disagree. As you said when we were, um… speaking in the orchard—“ _Very diplomatic way to put it, she thought. ‘Speaking’ rather than dueling._ “I’d defaced your property, and the tree was very old. I have to—”

“And I’ve told you,” she interrupted impatiently. “The apology is all I need. I’d feel like I’d imposed to receive monetary payment.”

“The tree must be compensated for!” he protested. Suddenly, she was very aware of the kettle beside the fire, and the sound of the water inside rumbling in the same tempo as her waning patience.

“As you can see, I’m hardly in the dregs of poverty,” Bilbo said with a little more bite. “I’m no in need of payment.”

“It isn’t about the money.”

“Isn’t it? That’s all you’ve spoken about since you’ve arrived. And I won’t be taking it, so you should just drop it.”

“I will not!” He’d finally raised his voice and stood as well, though the abrupt movement seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. “You _willnot_ ridiculous. I never asked you to return or to compensate me for the tree. You’ve done it all on your own, and you can’t blame me for it all not going your way.”

“I’ve never seen such blatant ingratitude in my life.”

“Ingratitude!” Bilbo scoffed. “You’re the one who can’t manage a proper apology for your own mistake!” 

He gaped at her, and though it was dark, she could see him flush. “You— you are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever encountered!” 

“And you’re the most insufferable, hard-headed man I’ve ever met!” she answered without missing a beat. The kettle was screaming now. 

“I’m trying to do the right thing!” he snapped, taking a fast step toward her. “Repaying you for the damage.”

“No, you’re trying to ease your own conscience in the quickest manner possible, and I won’t be having it! Not with money anyway!” The kettle was over boiling by now, echoing in Bilbo’s ears, and with a snarl she removed it from the fireplace. Jerking the pot out of the flames angrily, she poured the water over the leaves into a teacup. 

“Sugar?” she barked. 

“No!”

“Cream?”

“No, thank you!”

“Here!” She shoved the cup into his hands. “It’s hot. Don’t burn your tongue!”

And with that she snatched her own cup from the shelf and took a mighty gulp of it, if only to calm down her nerves. It didn’t help. They stood, glaring at each other over their tea like the old bitties, who sat all day in their chairs and gossiped fiercely about their rivals. 

“If—” “You must—”

They both shut their mouths, having spoken at the same time. 

“Go ahead,” Bilbo said. 

“No,” the man practically growled. “You. I _insist_.”

“Very well.” She resolutely languished in a slow sip of her tea and felt his gaze narrow at her. “It’s obvious we are at an impasse.”

“Fine,” he agreed.

“So,” she said. 

“So?”

“You ought to give.”

He spluttered. “I ought to? What gave you that idea?”

“You’re the offender. I’m the offended. To put it simply, you owe me already.” She quirked an eyebrow at his stunned expression. “And what good is an apology when the injury is not healed?”

“Yes, I can see you’re very injured,” he said dryly. 

“And I can see that you need to be taught how to apologize properly.”

“How dare you—”

“But you apologizing seems as likely as me accepting your payment, so like I said: an impasse.”

He grit his teeth. “And do you have a suggestion how to break it?”

Bilbo took a moment to consider, her tea growing colder and colder in her hands. Slowly, she paced back to her chair and sank into the seat. 

“Will you not sit down?”

He seemed to need a moment as well before he silently assented and also sat. 

“Look,” Bilbo said with a smirk. “We’re already sitting civilly. Aren’t we making lovely progress?”

“Leaps and bounds,” he deadpanned. 

“Yes, yes. Sometimes I find that when I cannot settle a problem, the best way for me to solve it is to abandon it for awhile. So let’s do this: we’ll have a nice, civil chat and then at the end, we’ll see if we can make some headway.”

The man cleared his throat and leaned forward. He looked like someone had shoved something slimy down his throat. “What do you suggest we talk about?”

“Oh anything, really. Since we’ve already shouted at each other, there’s no need to stand on ceremony. Isn’t that nice?”

He shrugged. “Very well, Miss.”

“It’s Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins, but you knew that.”

The man nodded in agreement but didn’t say anything in reply. Silence broke over the pair of them, only the crackling fire whispering in the background. Bilbo found for some reason she couldn’t look at him. She didn’t know what to say. And it seemed that he was content to sit and do nothing to start the conversation, so Bilbo politely cleared her throat.

“Well. This is the weirdest conversation I’ve had in a while.”

He startled her by snorting a laugh. The barest hint of a smile softened the severe edge of his mouth, and the angry lines on his cheeks lifted to crinkle around his eyes. “Yes, Miss.”

" _Bilbo_ ,” she insisted.

“And I am Thorin.”

She couldn’t help but quirk a smile. “Just Thorin? Well, that’s a very serious name. Do you have any nicknames? Like Thor? Bobbin? Pookie?”

He scoffed so loudly that the air from his mouth upset his tea, which set Bilbo chuckling. 

“Just Thorin,” he said. 

“No nicknames,” she confirmed, folding her arms over her chest. “And what do you _do_ , Mr. Thorin?”

“Just Thorin means _just_ Thorin. As you said, we’ve already shouted at each other. And I am, um…” He hesitated, and Bilbo puzzled as to why. His eyes flickered over the fire; his mouth pursed. “A guard. At the palace.”

“Really?” she asked, leaning forward. 

He looked rather pleased that she seemed interested. “Sometimes we’re told not to reveal we’re palace soldiers, to folk outside of the city. For safety purposes. There’s no telling who would accost a man to get close to the court.”

“So you work actually at court? Like with the nobles. Are you one of those silent sentries in the corner?”

Again, he nodded, though she watched his throat bob uncertainly and wondered if he now considered her a threat for knowing. 

“Um, well,” she tried to change to subject. “I thought you were a Lord yesterday, actually. Your armor was very fine, and you had a great deal too much arrogance to be in any form of service—” She held a hand over her mouth. “That was rude.” 

He shook his head. “No, I understand. I was… not myself yesterday.”

“You’ll forgive me for asking, but what on earth had you so upset? No, let me guess!” She leaned back in her chair, smirking. “You’re incensed about all this mess with one of our Shire girls and the prince, hmm?” She had meant to make him laugh again and see his face alight, but he was suddenly so still he could have been a statue.

“I’m not right, am I?” Bilbo asked. 

“We know nothing of that girl,” he spat, his temper darkening his features back to the fierce lines she had seen before. “Kili is a fool to even consider—”

“As in Prince Kili?” Bilbo couldn’t help but ask, noting the familiarity in his voice as he referred to the prince. “So you even know him?”

“Well, I am—” He gave her a peculiar look, and Bilbo returned it expectantly. “—their guard. At the palace.”

“So it’s all true then,” Bilbo murmured. “About Tauriel and the Prince, running off together, I mean. Are they really in hiding?”

Thorin now seemed very uncomfortable with her line of questioning, leaning back in his chair, his face troubled. 

“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to,” Bilbo said at once, but he shook his head. 

“Kili is impetuous as he’s ever been. As a child he’d run amuck and get himself into all sorts of scrapes, not a care in the world. Now he’s gone and ruined an alliance that could have been made with a country to the east, and for what? A pauper? She could be swindling him without him knowing it!”

“I can’t imagine that,” Bilbo said. “Tauriel was always a very smart, sweet girl with a quick wit.”

Thorin’s eyes widened considerably. “You know her?”

“Well, she is from here. We all tend to know each other, and before you ask, I have no idea where she might be, the poor girl. I hadn’t seen her about, and the last news I’d heard about her was from the town gossip this afternoon.”

“ _Poor girl_ ,” Thorin grumbled. “If she marries Kili, she’ll be rich and powerful beyond compare. All of Erebor will bow to her one day as queen if Fili does not marry.”

Bilbo shuddered at the thought. “Poor girl.”

“How could you say that?” Thorin snapped. 

She shrugged. “I never look at being royal as being happy. Power, prestige, sure, she’ll have all that, but no freedom. I can’t imagine the life of royalty, all plucked to perfection and paraded everywhere. The responsibility of so many lives placed solely on my shoulders. Blamed for rain, blamed for a hard harvest, blamed for war, blamed for peace. Surrounded by lush comfort but unable to stake any claim in it." She shook her head. "I couldn’t never.”

Bilbo turned away to the fire. As a growing young woman, she’d encountered only a few times in her life where her status had affected her greatly. There were the obligations to her land and her business that she was more than happy to fulfill but the idea of the social prison that was being a royal… it made her sick. She had friends in loftier houses than hers, where they lived in all the pomp and circumstance their position afforded, yet they seemed uncomfortable in their own skin, a stranger to their own home. Bungo had resolved to have his household, despite their elevation, a hideaway from social expectations, and Bilbo, raised in such an environment, couldn't imagine any other way to live. 

Eventually, when she raised her eyes to his, she found them full of curiosity and no small amount of wonder.

“Am I wrong?” She tried to smile but found that her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. 

“You’re not wrong,” he said gravely. 

She cleared her throat, changing gears. “Do you know the King as well, then? What sort of man is he?”

“He’s… well, he’s…” Thorin seemed to struggle with the words.

“Is he funny?” Bilbo prodded. “Hopefully he’s less rude than you are.”

Thorin leveled her a stare that could have curdled milk, but when he could discern that she meant it jokingly (the sardonic smile on her face gave her away) he relaxed. 

“Not to many. He’s forced to be serious.”

“Forced. I guess kinging will do that do you. But inside, is he a jester?”

He sank into his chair. 

“Oh, sorry, is this inappropriate?” she asked. “To talk about the King, I mean. We Shirefolk don’t really have much impact from his rule, and though I’m technically high born, I’ve never been forced to show at court. Am I being, um…” She tried not to smile. “…blasphemous?”

He outright laughed now, and that put her at ease. “No, no. I’ve just never been asked that about him. As for your question, I don’t think he’s much of a comedian. Sometimes when you have to put on a serious face all day, it gets stuck like that even in private, and you’re hard pressed to be able to change it.”

“You speak from experience,” she ventured slyly. 

“What, me?” he said in a feigned wounded voice. “I constantly talk and laugh.”

“And never shout at women,” Bilbo agreed.

“Or chop down their trees,” he declared seriously. “Or feel… very sorry about it afterwards.”

She had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing and watched as he sipped his tea, the telltale bob of his throat revealing he was trying to do the same.

“Which means I’m equally incapable of pelting poor strangers with apples in my grove,” she said. “Or apologizing for it later.”

He looked back up to her with a slow nod, an unspoken agreement settling between them. They were both the winner of the debate now, and Bilbo felt a thrill at the combined victory. Thorin seemed equally pleased, as if he’d outsmarted an enemy by genuinely befriending them, settling a dispute with only boons to gain.

Bilbo had to clear her throat to keep from smiling wide, so as not to break the illusion. “More tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” He reached out his mug, and as she took it, their fingers brushed for the briefest of seconds. When he’d been cold and wet before, she hadn’t thought about how warm he could be to the touch nor how handsome he suddenly looked in the firelight. Bilbo’s heart gave a squeeze, the same feeling that came whenever she thought about her parents, but it was gentler. Thorin’s eyes shone in the golden flickers a startling shade of blue, wide and endless. 

But all at once, he seemed to catch himself. His withdrew his arm so quickly that it brushed Bilbo’s parcel full of papers and threw them in a giant heap on the ground. Bilbo gave out a cry of dismay and he leaped to retrieve the fallen documents. 

“My apologies. I didn’t see—” He stopped, a deep furrow settling over his dark brows as he surveyed one of the papers in his hands. Bilbo didn’t notice until she’d gathered the rest up and extended her hand for the last piece. 

“Where did you get these?” Thorin asked in a soft voice, though Bilbo saw a strange wariness in his eye. 

She looked at the paper in his hand. It was one of the stack that "G" had leant to her, all gibberish as far as she could tell, yet Thorin held the paper in his hands like it was some secret tome. The lettering on the page was marked in bold stripes, straight and blocky, unlike any other writing Bilbo had encountered. She shrugged. 

“A friend delivered those to me. They’re um… well…” She didn’t know if she wanted to divulge all to him now, a relative stranger that he was. She settled for, “They’re accounts of my mother, I believe.”

“Can you read it?”

She shook her head. “Not a word, and I’ve some experience with languages. I’m fluent in Quenya and Sindarin, but I’ve never even seen those characters before.”

“You shouldn’t. They’re a secret language. It’s called Khudzul, and it’s the tongue of my people, the tongue of Erebor.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “You can read those?”

Shifting his hard gaze from her to the papers, he read aloud in a fierce, guttural tongue Bilbo had never heard before. It reverberated throughout the room in rough, earthy tones. Thorin’s very voice seemed to shift with the pronunciation, coming from the chest rather than in the throat, where the common language lived. Bilbo suddenly felt the world shift around her, and the scent of deep earth and caves and the sharp taste of metal filled her mouth, as if she’d cut her tongue. It was a strange dialect, filled with deep, old magic, which weaved throughout the words like an undercurrent in a river. 

Bilbo shook herself as Thorin’s voice quieted, as if snapped from a trance. “That was lovely. What did you say?”

Thorin looked puzzled. “Lovely? I assure you, Miss Baggins, there was nothing lovely in the report. It was about trade agreements from some old caravan, traveling north through… Water By?”

“Bywater,” she corrected, standing beside him to gaze down at the page. It held no more meaning for her than it had before, yet she still looked on it with wonder. “It’s a little hamlet, just west of here, still within the Shire borders. Fascinating. Can you read the rest of it?”

“I can,” he said. “But some of this is very old and not easy to translate.”

Bilbo sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to take it up to Erebor to have it…” A thought caught her tongue and held it still as she stared up at Thorin. He wasn’t looking at her, perusing the passage with a still furrowed brow, as if trying to work out why she had the strange, seemingly mundane text and not what it was. When she stopped speaking without a conclusion, he finally turned toward her. 

“I have it!” she cried aloud, startling him. One of her small hands flew into the air. “You’ve broken my tree and want to provide payment! Well, here it is! You translate these for me, in the comfort of my own home, and in return, I’ll forgive you for the tree! Ha!”

“You cannot be serious,” he deadpanned, not amused by the idea at all. 

“What, don’t palace guards get days off?”

“That’s not the reason, you simpleton.” He held aloft the notes. “Translating these can’t possibly count as payment to the tree. I’d still be in debt.”

Bilbo folded her arms, a stubborn smile stealing over her mouth. “Nothing wrong with having a bit of power over a palace guard, is there?” She included a mischievous look in her eye for effect. “I’m scandalous enough, having an armed, Erebor man in my house after dark.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, though his miffed expression slowly relaxed. Folding the paper down, he glanced out the window to the rising moon. At once he shot up, slamming the papers down on the end table. 

“Night! I’m late! They’ll be scouring the country for me!”

Before Bilbo could say a word, he was putting down the tea, gathering his effects, his sword and the purse that she’d rejected, and escaping toward the door. 

“Hold on, Thorin!” she called after him. But he was quick as he was efficient and bolted down the entryway before she could catch him. He threw the door open, and Bilbo puffed up behind him, nearly out of breath with all the abrupt running. 

“Thorin, wait! You’re… you’re leaving?” she panted.

Thorin’s hulking shoulders almost hit her as he turned, and all at once there was a wide smile on his face. “Here,” he said, plucking one of the ornate beads from his hair. It was the one she’d noted before, that formally clung to the side of his ear by a smaller plait of hair. He placed it into her palm before she could protest. “I will return, but this is as best compensation as I can do for now.”

Bilbo eyed the trinket. It was as long as the point of her finger, marble with blue sapphire laced into the edges and cracks. “This is too much!” she protested, but he grabbed her hand, locking her fingers over the bead. 

“You’d like me to come back, Bilbo?” he asked. 

She was startled by the question, but the heat of his hand on top of hers was such a pleasant sensation. And the papers back in her study wouldn’t translate themselves, logic reminded her. 

“I have few friends as well,” he added quietly.

“So palace guards _do_ have days off?”

He smirked. “I can manage a few now and then.”

Thorin was so close that Bilbo could see the black flecks in his eyes, the warm light of her hearth spreading over his cheeks in a rosy glow. 

“I’m normally home around this time,” she whispered at last. Distantly, Hobbiton's town clock tolled midnight, ringing over the empty plains. Thorin grinned.

And then his hand was gone, the warmth lost in the cool night air. He was leaving in the same abrupt manner he had before, shoulders square, a noble swagger in his step. 

But this time, just as he reached the bend in the path to lead him toward the mountain, he looked back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so there's a bit of peace between them now, but I'm sure they'll find ways to annoy each other soon. Thanks, as always, for the comments and kudos.


	5. Dinner's at Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello again. Please know that I haven't abandoned this story! I've just been a little slow in putting the necessary pieces together and traipsing through the hard parts. Please enjoy the chapter.

Belladonna Baggins had been clairvoyant.

This was a universally known fact, as sure as Midsummer parties and a fall harvest. 

It had started quietly, as things are wont to do. Belladonna merely brought her umbrella to a spring festival, which hadn’t been rained out in a hundred years. Folk at the time thought it might have been good luck or prudent planning— Belladonna had always seemed prepared in those days— but it did set the neighborhood on a merry watch. 

“We’ll see if she does anything else,” they laughed amongst themselves. And when nothing of note happened, they resolved to approach Belladonna with questions instead. Small questions of course— will it rain tomorrow? How will my blueberry crumble be received at the party on Sunday?— and without fail, Belladonna’s predictions were correct. 

It wasn’t until Mooney Proudfoot and Katherine May were fighting for the possession of Farmer Maggot’s largest pumpkin that anyone truly believed Belladonna was magical. 

“They’ll be married before Christmas,” she’d said quietly. A few of the old cronies of the market had heard her, giggling amongst themselves. Everyone knew the family feud between the Mays and the Proudfoots and how it’d set not only the parents but their children at fierce odds with one another. November was particularly cold that year, and the entire Shire was abuzz with the rumor of Melinda and Mooney’s elopement. They returned on Christmas Day, happily married and settled, and Belladonna was declared clairvoyant. 

Overnight, Bag End was transformed from a sleepy estate into the talk of the town, and its seams nearly burst with visitors. Folk inquired about their futures, and though Belladonna was intentionally cryptic in her advice, she was never once proven wrong. When she spoke, all of the Shire believed her.

With one exception. Young Bilbo Baggins never quite believed it. 

There’s a fair bit of growing that every lad and lass undertakes in their teen years, when they suddenly realize the mortality of their parents. Bilbo’s disbelief in her mother’s abilities was, perhaps, a mere offshoot of every teen’s propensity to ignore the counsel of their elders. 

For whatever reason, whenever Belladonna recommended anything to Bilbo, she simply wouldn’t take the advice. The consequences were normally petty. A wet frock when she didn’t bring an umbrella or a spoiled crop when she didn't turn about three times in front of it— nothing truly harmful. And Belladonna, sweet and kind woman that she was, didn’t take offense. 

Until the night of Bilbo’s coming of age. 

“There’s a ball in Erebor on the 22nd,” Belladonna said a few weeks before Bilbo’s coming-out party. “You’ll attend, won’t you?”

Bilbo sat in her father’s easy chair beside the fire. On her lap was a tome about the history of the eastern provinces. “For whatever reason?” she said. “I’ve no love for balls.” 

“It’s the King’s Ball, and your coming of age. You ought to go. I’m sure you’ll meet someone special there.”

Bilbo scoffed, a soft noise in the back of her throat that she normally made at her mother’s predictions. 

“Bilbo, sweetheart—”

“Would you like some tea, mother?” She rose from her seat before Belladonna could protest. Her mother glanced back toward the kitchen, where Bilbo stood impatiently, making the tea. Her hair had grown long, and with her youth blossoming to adulthood, she now possessed a woman’s chin. There was something fair and pleasing in the intelligent quirk of her mouth. Hidden underneath homely features, Bilbo possessed a truly lovely soul. Yet Belladonna’s trepidation grew, for she could see her daughter’s future as sure as she could see her now. 

In a week at Bilbo’s birthday, she presented her daughter with a dress. 

“It’s nice,” Bilbo said noncommittally. “A bit lavish for a birthday party, no matter the coming of age.”

She was right. The silky texture of the bodice, coupled with the delicate beading along the collar and hem were a stark contrast from the simple cottons Bilbo normally wore. 

“It’s a ball gown,” Belladonna replied. “For tonight.”

“I thought we agreed I wasn’t going.”

“You agreed. I did not.” She took the dress into her arms, holding it against Bilbo’s chest. “You will look so beautiful in this. It will be sure to attract attention.”

“Mother, whose attention? I won’t—”

“Bilbo, you must listen to me.” Belladonna clasped her daughter’s hands in hers; for once her smile dropped. “I know you often do not believe me when I say things, and that’s been alright. But you have to believe me when I tell you this: you must go to the ball tonight. It is your destiny.”

Bilbo shrank back, breaking from her mother’s hold. “I don’t understand.”

“You, my dear, are clever and lovely and inquisitive. You have a heart of adventure and compassion. You are meant to heal a great wound and fill the heart of another.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

“Bilbo, you _must_ go to this ball. Someone is there, and you must meet them. If not, the result will be ill.” 

But Bilbo’s eyes grew wide with fear. She’d never heard her mother speak so strangely before. It was one thing to let the neighbors gossip about clairvoyance but another to declare her daughter’s destiny all being wrapped up in a single ball. 

There hadn’t been a row. Bilbo hadn’t allowed for one. Destiny… how could such a thing be predicted? She’d run for the door before Belladonna could catch her. That night, a strange feeling swelled in her chest as she watched the fireworks dart in green and blue light over the Erebor skyline, which glowed like a white gem in the night. Bilbo hadn’t been to the white city since she was a girl, and though she couldn’t explain it, a strange desire to see the place nearly overcame her. 

But she didn’t return home, didn’t put on the gown, and didn’t go to the ball. 

The next day, when slunk guiltily through the doorway, neither woman spoke of the affair, and though the consequences never were disastrous, as Belladonna had implied, Bilbo had never left for Erebor again. And hadn’t married. And when both her parents died a few years later, she was left alone in her estate.

~

Thorin wasn’t overly talkative, Bilbo was discovering. There were whole stretches when he was content to sit in silence at her desk and pour over the manuscripts she’d asked him to translate. Sometimes they sat for hours and didn’t speak at all. Other times, she’d leave to run some errand or another. When she’d return, he wouldn’t say a word. At first, she’d thought he didn’t particularly enjoy her company, which put her on edge. After all, when he’d left the first night, he’d seemed to be so pleased to return. 

She’d puzzled over it for the first couple of nights (for he always came in the evening, when his guard shift was complete) and didn’t say much to him in return. It wasn’t until she returned with a cup of tea and wordlessly handed it to him that he finally turned to her. 

“Thank you,” he said, and from the sincerity and softness in his voice, Bilbo suspected it wasn’t for the tea. 

“For what?” she asked. 

He ducked his head, as if embarrassed at being read so easily. “You see, I’m questioned incessantly. My duties, well—” He stopped. He did this whenever he spoke about his ‘duties,’ as if they made him uncomfortable. “I’m involved in a lot of decision making. I don’t have a lot of time to sit and _be_ without distubrances. So thank you. This is refreshing.”

She smiled at him. “You are most welcome. I was just going to stretch my legs. Care to join me?”

This was to be the first of many walks they took together. Bilbo had removed her light frock for a pair of trousers and walked barefoot along the dirt pathway from her house. She noticed Thorin staring at her feet and then pointedly looking away when she caught him. 

“Shocked?” she laughed, nudging him in the shoulder. 

“I’ve never seen a Lady such as yourself with as much…”

“Vulgarity? Classlessness?”

“I was going to say freedom.”

“Ah.” She grinned up at him. “Huge advantage of owning your own land. I discovered that when you’re on your own property, folk don’t take to bothering you as much about ‘the way things should be’ and all that. You should try it.” She wiggled her toes. 

“But this isn’t my land,” he pointed out. 

“I give you my express permission. As my official manuscript translator, it is the least I can do for you.”

“Well, if you put it that way.” They stopped at a garden of small rocks, where Thorin sat and removed his shoes. His feet were clean, broad, and pale, as if they saw very little of the sun. They contrasted harshly with Bilbo’s tanned, dirty feet, and she cleared her throat, slightly embarrassed. 

“I hope I’m not putting you off.”

“Off what?” he asked. 

“Well, I know I’m…” She didn’t know how to put it. She didn’t want to necessarily incriminate herself— reveal her neighbors’ opinions about her before they could truly cement a friendship— but didn’t feel right about potentially misleading him. “I’m the odd one of the Shire. I do things entirely in my own way. I’m not, well, popular for it, you see.”

“Not popular?” he questioned. “Are you ostracized?”

“Oh, heavens, no. I get a few strange looks at market, and whenever I’m caught doing something scandalous, I’m the fodder of all sorts of rumors.”

His blue eyes twinkled with humor. “And what do you do that’s scandalous? Besides walking barefoot.” He stared down at her toes. 

Under his scrutiny, she shifted uncomfortably. “Well, for instance, the day before I met you, I joined my farmhands to recapture some escaped hogs.”

He must have liked the thought, because Thorin pulled a hand over his mouth to hide a smile. It was some time before he could look her in the eye. “And this has what to do with me?” 

“Well, I don’t know! I’m just informing you! Goodness!” She threw her hands in the air and removed her fall jacket, suddenly very warm. Her cream-colored chemise was wrinkled beneath her bracers, but it was too late to cover it with the jacket now. She blushed. “It’s not everyday I make a friend, but I don’t want to lead you on about my position. If you intended making more connections in the Shire, you association with me could—”

“Hold on now. I met you because I felled your tree.”

She paused. “Yes, I am there for that.”

“So which part of me defacing your property turns me into an obliging visitor, wishing to make friends?”

She turned back toward him to find his expression so pinched it looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole. It took her a moment to realize he was trying to hold back his laughter. 

“Oh, you prick!” she cried. 

That did it. Before he could throw a hand over his face, he burst into laughter. 

“Don’t you laugh at me, Thorin! Hey!” She attempted smothering his chortles with her hand over his mouth, but before she could touch him, he ducked out of her hands. 

“It’s no wonder you’re considered odd! What a mouth you have on you!”

“I’ll have you know I am a _Lady_ , you bastard!” she yelled, though now she was hard-pressed to keep a smile off her face. “Some friend you turned out to be! You’re ruthless!”

“And your face is red,” he remarked. 

“Shut up!”

They walked around the perimeter of her property for another two hours, so lost in conversation that they didn’t notice the sun set until Bilbo’s stomach growled loudly. 

“That’ll be the call for dinner.” She smirked. “I believe Bell is cooking up a roast. You’ll stay of course.”

He glanced back toward the road, where Erebor lay some miles off, and swallowed. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, make up your mind,” Bilbo called, content to leave him behind for the promise of a hot meal. “I’m certainly not going to wait for you. Bell’s roast is the best in ten leagues, and she bakes potatoes and a turkey leg with it. And then it’s cream pie and pudding for dessert—”

Thorin suddenly was in front of her, scampering downhill toward the house, and Bilbo shrieked with laughter as she followed him.

The farmhands eyed them as they pummeled down toward the house. Bilbo’s lungs hurt from the sudden icy chill to the wind and thought maybe she ought to order her firewood soon if it was going to be an early winter. Thorin didn’t seem to notice the cold, his cheeks pink from the exercise. As they neared the house, Bilbo saw the kitchen hearth was alight, a cozy warm glow down the hill. 

“Whose horse is that?” Thorin asked. 

Bilbo followed the line of his extended hand. Sure enough, a white mare stood next to a nearby stake, intended for visitors or when Bilbo herself took out a horse for a ride. She peered closer and noted a silver leaf etched into the horse’s saddle. It was the sigil of the Greenwood House, but it was half obscured by a hanging cloak and hood, both green. Bilbo recognized the clothing, and her heart caught in her throat. 

Tauriel was here. 

“Do you not know?” Thorin asked again. Bilbo turned toward him, and her stomach dropped. 

Thorin: the King’s Guard, sworn to protect the King and his interests. If he caught Tauriel in her house, he’d surely drag her back to Erebor by her ear if not worse. 

“Bilbo?” he asked again. “Are you alright? You look a little pale.”

“Oh? Am I?” she asked, quickening her pace to the house. She had to reach it before he did. “I must be hungry. It’s nothing really.”

She cracked her door, checking briefly that her entryway was clear before opening it for the both of them. Thorin’s boots thudded monstrously on the wooden floors. 

A melodious, youthful voice echoed suddenly down the hallway. “Bilbo? Is that you? I’m in the kitchen!”

It was Tauriel! Thorin, whether consciously or no, took a step toward the sound, but Bilbo’s arm shot out to stop him. 

“That’s just Bell, my housekeeper,” she said quickly. Then louder down the hall, she called, “Coming, Bell!” 

A giddy laugh answered her. 

“How about you wait in the study?” she asked Thorin. “I’ll help Bell prepare dinner.”

“I could help,” he offered. “And I wouldn’t pass up a chance on meeting your excellent cook.” Bilbo inwardly damned her big mouth. Thorin moved toward the kitchen again, but she blocked his path. 

“She’s shy. Terribly so. I’m afraid meeting someone this late in the evening would put her out.”

As if to directly contradict her, Tauriel’s voice sang out. “Oh, Bilboo! Where are you, darling?”

“A moment!” she cried back. 

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Very shy.”

“Well, not around me! Just have a seat in the study. I’ll tell her you’re here, so she won’t be surprised.”

“But—”

“Go _on_ ,” she said through gritted teeth and smiled to cover her annoyance. “Please. It won’t be a moment.”

“Very well.” He left down the corridor toward the study. Bilbo waited until he rounded the corner before she dashed in the opposite direction down the hall toward the kitchen. She hoped that Tauriel wouldn’t yell anything else out before she had a chance to silence her. She couldn’t think about what would happen if her young friend were caught. 

When she darted inside, the kitchen was filled with the scent of cooking meat with a hint of apple turnover. The fire was stoked and roasting a succulent slab of roast, next to a pot of soup. The round table in the corner was overflowing with discarded vegetable parts and apple pits, and at the countertop, a tall, slender woman stood rolling dough.

Bilbo thought of many happy afternoons with Tauriel as a young girl. They’d cooked together, side by side between excursions into the woods, where they had searched for dragons and orcs and only found trees instead. The Tauriel then had been tall then as well, but stick thin and awkward at every angle, all elbows and knees. Her face had been too angular to be pretty in a town where plumpness was next to godliness. 

But the Tauriel who stood now in her kitchen was no gawkish girl. She’d filled out well, the curve of her body finally matching her auspicious height. She wore boots and a soft, green tunic. The colors of her adopted family, the Greenleafs, complimented her auburn hair. Her eyes sparkled as she stopped kneading the bread in her hands. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Tauriel said. Her voice was deeper now, a woman’s voice. “I sent Bell home. I thought we could cook together, like old times.” She smiled, and it was radiant. 

“Oh, Tauriel.” Bilbo darted forward and snatched the girl by her waist for an embrace. She had to stand on her tiptoes to rest her chin on her shoulders, but the hug was worth the effort. Bilbo only realized now how lonely she’d been without her. “I’ve missed you, my girl,” she confessed quietly. “How are you?”

Tauriel’s smile widened, and her cheeks turned red. “Good. Happy. In love, if you can believe it.” She laughed and slapped a hand to her face, as if the whole idea was absurd. 

Bilbo’s grin turned a touch wry. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

“I thought as much. Was it Matilda? That horrible gossip.”

“She caught me in the market before I could get away. But the whole town is abuzz with it. Is it true? That—”

“Yes, Kili is a prince. I didn’t even mean to like him. It came on all so suddenly. One minute, I’m perfectly content with my place with the Greenleafs, and the next I’m on the run. Both Lord Thranduil and the King of Erebor are searching for me.” She shook her head. “If Thranduil catches me, he’ll send me off to goodness knows where to keep me away from the King’s line, and if the King catches me…” she shuddered. 

“And what about your intended, the prince? Where is he?” Bilbo asked. 

“I don’t know. We separated after Kili proposed that night. At first I thought he’d been taken back to the palace, but I’ve heard rumor that the King is looking for him as well. I’ve been in hiding too, waiting for word from him. Bilbo, I need to ask you something.”

“Of course, ask away.”

But before Tauriel could open her mouth, they both heard the front door crack open and someone shuffle inside. 

Bell’s voice echoed shrilly into the kitchen. “Bilbo? Darling, I’ve forgotten my shawl. Silly me.”

“Oh, no. Thorin!” Bilbo hissed. 

“Thorin?” Tauriel asked.

“You have to hide!” she said quickly, dragging the taller girl into the pantry. “Don’t ask questions. Just sit behind the food racks, and don’t make a sound. Not a peep!”

“Why should I hide? Bilbo, who’s Thorin?”

“Oh, he’s… I don’t have the time. Stay put!”

She dashed down the hall before Tauriel could respond, but she wasn’t fast enough. She heard Thorin’s voice ahead of her. 

“Good evening, madam. Are you a friend of Bilbo’s?”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will come soon, worry not! I'm not a fan of cliffhangers either in WIPs, but it seemed like a solid place to end for now. 
> 
> On another note, I'm trying to look for cool tones to listen to while writing. I dig Of Monsters and Men, The Arcade Fire, and bands like those. What did you listen to while reading this?
> 
> Cheers!


	6. Nothing But Bread in the Pantry

Bilbo rounded the final curve toward the entry hall just as Bell was lowering herself into a curtsey. “Bell Gamgee. I’m Bilbo’s housekeeper.”

Thorin’s brows wrinkled in confusion. Bilbo burst into the room. 

“Oh, Bell, good, you’re back!” she yelled. Both Thorin and her poor housekeeper jumped at the high pitch in her voice. “Yes, I put the roast on the fire. It’s just waiting for your special touch.”

Bilbo brushed past Thorin and yanked her housekeeper down the hall. 

“My touch?” Bell asked, confused. “But Ta—”

“Oh, Bell, I am famished! I cannot wait for dinner. I swear, my mouth is watering even now.” Her face flushed. She cast a backward glance to Thorin, who looked more befuddled than a cat tickled on the rear. Embarrassed but determined, Bilbo plowed ahead. Her grip on Bell’s arm tightened. 

“Miss, what is going on?” she asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” Bilbo dragged Bell toward the kitchen, while Thorin followed silently behind. She stopped. “Thorin, why don’t you go back and wait in the study? Dinner will be ready soon, now that Bell’s back.”

“Wasn’t Miss Bell in the kitchen before?” he asked. His face was impassive, like a rock wall. 

Bilbo gulped. “No, no, she left to grab something from home.”

“My shawl,” Bell provided dumbly. 

“Her shawl.”

Thorin didn’t look convinced. “So there’s no one else back in the kitchen?” 

“Of course not.”

At that moment, there was a brief clattering followed by a gasp. Bilbo coughed loudly into her elbow, a poor cover. “W-would you like some tea, Thorin? While you wait?”

“No, thank you. Bilbo, who’s back there?”

“No one! Bell, the roast is going to burn if we don’t see to it.”

“Allow me to help you,” Thorin offered. 

“No, that’s quite alright.”

“I insist.” He stepped around them, making a beeline for the kitchen. Bilbo gripped Bell’s arm for support and scurried after him. 

“Miss, tell me what is going on,” Bell whispered, but Bilbo shook her head, too afraid to speak. What would happen if he caught Tauriel? Would he recognize her? She didn’t know if they’d posted Tauriel’s likeness around Erebor like some criminal. In the Shire, everyone knew everyone, so there was no need for advertising, but was that true of the rock kingdom to the north? She couldn’t say and couldn’t take the chance either way. If he did recognize her young friend, Bilbo would lose two friends in a night, and poor Tauriel would lose all hope of marrying the prince.

When they arrived in the kitchen, it was mercifully empty. Outside, the sun was past set, the pale light of the moon shining over the leftover bread on the counter. Tauriel had stayed in the pantry or at least had gone back after she’d knocked over a dish of dried fruit. The red and purple pieces lay scattered over the checkered tiles. Thorin touched one with his heavy boot. 

“Someone spilled these.”

“I must have put the dish too close to the edge,” Bilbo supplied quickly. “If you want, Thorin, you can grab the plates and bring them to the dining room.” Thorin turned back to her, his eyes narrowed. He looked as if he wanted to drag answers from her with his gaze alone, but Bilbo wouldn’t flinch. “Since you’re so bent on helping,” she added with a steely look of her own. 

“Where are the plates?” he asked finally. 

Bell rushed forward. “Here,” she said as she reached under the cupboard and put a set of matching dishes into his outstretched arms. He thanked her quietly and walked to the dining room without further comment. 

Bilbo let out a sigh of relief. 

“Miss, who is that?” Bell asked shrewdly. 

Bilbo gaped at her tone. “A friend, of course.”

“And he’s here with you? At this time of night?”

“Bell, I often have dinner guests—”

“No, you don’t.”

Bilbo groaned and retreated to the pantry, with Bell on her heels. Tauriel was crouched behind a basket of eggs. She peered out as Bilbo stepped through the doorway. 

“That was a man’s voice I heard!” she declared with a wide smile. 

“A friend, Tauriel. Honestly, the both of you are ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Bell agreed with a sardonic voice. “A friend, Miss Tauriel.”

Tauriel’s eyes widened. She stood to her full height. “What kind of friend?”

“The friendly kind!” Bilbo defended. 

“At this hour?” The girl’s grin turned sinister. “It appears as if I’m not the only one having a secret love!”

“Enough, enough!” Bilbo cried as she leaned against the bread rack. At least the smell of freshly baked loaves wasn’t treacherous. “Tauriel, Thorin is a palace guard. If he finds you, he’s honor bound to bring you to Erebor.”

Tauriel stiffened.

“What business have you with a palace guard?” Bell asked.

“I met him in the orchard. He, um, owes me a favor, so I’ve asked him to translate some old Erebor texts. They’re in the Old Erebor tongue— Khudzul I think it’s called— and I can’t make them out, but he can.”

Bell seemed to understand immediately. “You mean those papers about your mother?” 

Bilbo swallowed. “Yes.”

A cloud lowered onto Tauriel’s face, and her sly grin faded. “You’ve finally heard word about her family?”

“I’m not sure just yet. Thorin has yet to complete anything, and I don’t want to look at the works out of context. Once he finishes all of them, I’ll start reading it.” She thought of Thorin, bent over her writing desk, late into the evening, with his long hair pulled back at his neck. He copied the books page by page into Bilbo’s stack of blank volumes. Sometimes he paused for tea or rubbed his wrists. Sometimes he’d start to talk with her. Tedious he called translating from time to time, but he had no context of how much it meant to her. Still, because she had asked, he worked on without complaint, more than fulfilling a debt for a felled tree.

She suddenly felt guilty for lying to the poor man, though she hadn’t had a choice.

“My presence here endangers your work, Bilbo,” Tauriel said quietly. 

“Nonsense, my girl.” She stepped forward. “Thorin is a kind man, but loyal to the King, of course. If he found you, he’d be honor-bound to take you in, no matter his personal feelings.”

“To that damned sod of a King!” Bell huffed. 

“Bell!” Tauriel admonished. “The King is like a father to Kili!”

“If he were a father, he wouldn’t care who his boy married so long as he was happy.” Bell sniffed. “My pa let me marry Ham, though he was a gardener, and we’re happy, we are. I’d be happy in a cold ditch so long as I had my Hamfast.” She nodded and gave Tauriel a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t let that old toadie keep you down, love.”

“You can’t just call the King of Erebor an old toadie,” Tauriel scolded behind her laughter.

“Well, he’s not here right now.” The old housekeeper ruffled her hands in her skirt. “I think I’d know if I had nobility sitting pretty in Miss Bilbo’s study.”

In the kitchen, footsteps sounded over the tiles. 

“He’s back!” Tauriel hissed. 

“Get behind the racks! Out of sight.” Bilbo shoved Tauriel down by the shoulders, spinning just in time to catch Thorin poke his head into the pantry. 

“There you are,” he said. The suspicious light in his eye hadn’t dimmed a fraction, but he hid it well behind a small smile. “Searching for ingredients?”

Bilbo swallowed as he skimmed the racks of food, searching undoubtedly for a third person. 

“Ah, yes, just a bit of cayenne.” She mentally kicked herself for the opening, which Thorin seized. 

“Allow me to help you search.”

“There’s no need—”

But Thorin approached, hands skimming the wooden racks as he “hunted” for the pepper. Bilbo backed away, with Tauriel hidden in the corner, obscured by Bilbo’s wide trousers and a case of fresh tomatoes. Behind Thorin, Bell held her breath. 

“Where’s your salt rack?” Thorin asked. 

“T-this way, I think.” Bilbo led him the opposite direction. Thorin didn’t follow her immediately, staring back further into the pantry. If he stepped forward, he’d see Tauriel in a heartbeat. But he turned when Bilbo did, either out of respect for her house or because he hadn’t seen anyone yet. 

Bilbo heard Bell’s sigh of relief and fought to contain her own. 

The spice rack— one of them— brimmed with clearly labeled jars on each of the four wooden shelves, but Bilbo knew the cayenne wouldn’t be there. Thorin searched briefly before he gave up the prospect. 

“Perhaps it was placed further back?” he inquired, rounding a stack of old firewood. Before Bilbo could catch him, he crossed in full range of Tauriel’s hiding spot, but he didn’t react at all. Bilbo nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a tug at her side. Tauriel had switched positions, now hidden beside her in a row of hanging garlic. Obscuring her feet was a tub of the old vineyard, and Bilbo was never more grateful that she had hoarded the last of her father’s brew. 

“Here!” She heard Thorin’s triumphant voice just before he reappeared, a jar of red pepper in hand. “It was rather high up. No wonder you couldn’t find it.” 

“A-are you mocking my height, sir?” Bilbo stammered as she fought to keep her smile wry instead of desperate. As she reached for the pot, he withheld it. 

“You’re not hiding something from me, are you, Bilbo?”

“What would I hide from you? Well.” She cleared her throat. “Besides a messy pantry.”

“It doesn’t appear unclean.” His smile turned sardonic, and Bilbo could feel a blush on her cheeks. 

“She’s a trifle fussy,” Bell remarked from the doorway. 

Now Bilbo did blush. 

Thorin’s smile widened. “Miss Baggins? Fussy? I never.”

“Now, see here, you two!” 

The spell of tension seemed to break. With a chuckle, Thorin released the pepper into her hands and stepped from the pantry into the kitchen. He missed the thin strand of Tauriel’s red hair peeking from behind the garlic. Bilbo stepped forward to conceal it. 

Only when Thorin was out of the kitchen did the three women heave great gasps of relief. 

“Well done, Miss,” Bell said waving herself. 

“Yes!” Tauriel praised. “Thank goodness you’ve always been a good talker, Bilbo.” 

Bell chortled. “Oh, no, dear, I meant about the man!”

Bilbo fought the blush that shot straight to her ears. “W-w—”

Now Tauriel poked her head from the garlic cloves. “Was he handsome, Bell? I couldn’t see from behind the rack. He had a lovely voice.” 

Bell gripped the edge of her apron and used it to wave her hot cheeks. “If I was yet unmarried, girl—”

“Bell!” Bilbo cried, horrified. 

“Well he is! I didn’t have the time to look at him properly in the hall before, but goodness! All that hair!”

“That’s how the men of Erebor wear it, all long like that,” Tauriel said dreamily. “Kili puts braids in it and has beads to clasp them with.” 

Bilbo thought of Thorin’s blue and white bead, a constant weight in her jacket pocket. She didn’t have the heart to put it into some glory box, out of sight. Some nights, she took it out, enjoying the fine texture of the marble and its shine in the firelight. Her cheeks reddened even more. 

“Alright, alright,” she muttered, snatching a thatch of green onions and carrots from a vegetable rack. “Bell, please put these to boil.”

“Yes, Miss,” Bell giggled as she took them, shaking her head. 

Bilbo sighed. “I’ll need some ale after this. At my age, getting a fright like that…”

“Oh please, Bilbo,” Tauriel huffed. “You’re hardly old at all. And you certainly can handle excitement. Wasn’t it you who braved the wilds of Dunland with nothing but a cloak and walking stick?”

“I was sixteen. Talk to me when you’re my age, girl.”

Tauriel quirked a smile. “I’d rather talk with you now.”

Bilbo glanced out toward the kitchen, where Bell bustled between the oven and counter. Thorin, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen. “Tell me what you were going to say earlier.”

Tauriel bit her lip. It was such a girlish gesture, and Bilbo was relieved that some things never changed. “I’m unsure about it now. If your friend is helping you find out about your mother, I don’t want to get in the way or take your time from that. I know how much it haunts you to this day…”

“Tauriel, ask your question. I will decide what I do. I have no need for you to make my decisions for me.”

“Very well. I was wondering if you’d talk with my employer, Lord Thranduil.” 

Bilbo paused, her mouth open. 

“You don’t have to!” Tauriel said quickly with her hands raised. 

“T-talk to him… About you? Why should he listen to me?”

“Well, it’s not so much as listen to you as listen to reason." 

Bilbo waved a hand in front of her nose as if dispelling her own confusion. “Tauriel, just explain it to me, will you?”

“Right.” Tauriel inhaled. “I’ve given all of this a good think, and if Kili and I are going to be together, there has to be some reconciliation between Thranduil and the King of Erebor. Years ago, there was some grievance done on both sides, and though Thranduil is the land’s most powerful lord, it’s been years since he’s been at court. I thought about sending him a letter, trying to get him to resume his place amongst the lords of Erebor, but I’m afraid of it being traced back to me. If you go to Thranduil on my behalf, convince him to resume his place…”

“But why would he?” Bilbo interrupted. “If he’s against the match because he dislikes the King, why should he resume his place at court and support you?”

“Ah, you see, Bilbo, Lord Thranduil quite likes me.”

Bilbo tried to hide a smile. “Likes you?”

“I’m like a daughter to him. Look.” She dug quickly into the green fabric of her tunic, taking out a small, silver chain. Attached to the chain, a sparkling leaf gleamed in the light of the candles. It looked to be made from emeralds or some other precious jewel, and Bilbo recognized the seal of the Greenleaf estate, the same sigil that adorned Tauriel’s saddle. “He gave this to me on the eve of my coming of age. I am not, of course, true member of his house, but…” She smiled, and her pale cheeks dimpled. 

“You think if he hears reason he’ll somehow accept?”

“I think he wants me to be happy. I know he does. He cares for me.”

Bilbo shook her head. “And yet you’re unwilling to meet him face to face because you suspect he’ll spirit you away.”

“But that’s where you come in.” Tauriel reached forward and took her hands. Bilbo’s tanned, stubby digits looked ridiculous wrapped in Tauriel’s elegant fingers. “If you can convince my Lord Thranduil to accept the marriage, I can return to the estate. At least from there, Thranduil and I can see about reasoning with the King.”

Bilbo remembered Thorin’s brief description of the King, someone who rarely smiled, and thought it was a desperate plan. Yet Tauriel’s sweetness clouded Bilbo’s judgment. Of course if Bilbo could help her young friend to true love, she ought to!

“Alright, Tauriel, I’ll go visit him… not that he’ll take my counsel anyway. I haven’t spoken to him in years, and he is in fact a Lord.”

“And you’re a Lady, Bilbo.”

“Er… well, technically, but nothing to him.”

Tauriel released a long-suffering sigh. “Bilbo, you are keen to forget that Bag End is the largest estate in all the Shire.”

Bilbo snorted as if the fact wasn’t all that plausible.

Smiling away, Tauriel bent and kissed Bilbo’s forehead. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, so after reading some (very) helpful comments, I realized I posted the chapters out of order like a ninny and hope you will forgive me!
> 
> Please accept poor chapter 6 for what it is. It sets up some things that happen later!


	7. Tales of New

Chapter 7

Bilbo arrived in the dining area to find Thorin politely waiting behind a mountain of food. Had Bell cooked her whole pantry?

“Thank goodness it’s you,” Thorin said with a sigh. “If your housekeeper had returned with another course, I might have keeled over.”

“With fright?” Bilbo chuckled. She paced the round table, her fingers absently tugging one of the doilies sitting beneath a plate of freshly cut bread. “I hope you’re not one to swoon.”

“I assure you, I won’t.” He picked up a long knife and dragged it on the roast as Bilbo found her seat next to him. 

“You don’t seem that intimidated.”

He caught her attempt to bait him. “Neither do you.”

“I come from a family of hearty eaters. My father’s brother could clear a table this size all on his own.”

“That’d be a sight,” Thorin said with a smirk. He held a thick slice of the roast between his fork and knife, holding it just above her plate. Bilbo’s mouth watered. All the excitement of the evening had famished her. She thought of Tauriel safely stowed away in her bedroom, and the poor girl’s lost prince. Even she had no idea where he could be. 

“The prince,” she said aloud. Thorin started. The light blues of his eyes deepened. 

“What of him?”

She held up a hand. “Sorry, I was just thinking aloud. It all seems like such a strange thing, with him hiding away. I wonder where he could have gone.”

Thorin’s face collapsed into his familiar frown, though it wasn’t a welcome sight. Bilbo saw infinite age pass over him like a grey cloud. Before her eyes, he was transformed. 

“I’m sorry. I should have—”

“We searched all his usual haunts, of course. The Deepening Wall, all the pubs in Esgaroth, a few old houses in Dale that serve as the Royal Family’s living quarters. Even your Shire was searched for any sign of him.”

“You’re worried for him,” Bilbo realized. 

Thorin shook his head. “Well of course, I’m… well... It’s my job to make sure he’s safe and well. He’s never been so long on his own without protection, or his brother at least.”

“The Crown Prince?”

He nodded. “Fili has much more sense, thank goodness. Kili’s senior by only a year. They’re rambunctious scoundrels, especially when together. But Fili is wise where Kili is impulsive. Only Kili would have done something as foolhardy as to propose to a commoner, and a maiden of the Greenleafs at that!” He said the word Greenleaf like a curse. 

“Thorin, why do you disapprove of that family so?”

His shoulders stiffened. He scoffed. “Disapprove is too kind a word for it. The honorable Lord Thranduil of the Greenleaf Estate and presiding countryside—” He unleashed a torrent of thick, grating words in rapid succession. Bilbo had to hold her tongue, lest she try to repeat them for her memory. Even in anger, the ancient Erebor tongue sounded like one of the old prayer songs, old and utterly haunting.

“That’s what I say to that!” Thorin finished with a growl. 

“How has he caused offense?”

“He slighted the Line of Durin— on more than one occasion too!”

“Ah.” Bilbo leaned back in her chair. “A clan feud?”

He nodded. “As old as the bloodline itself some say. But I’ve heard accounts of peace. It is not the Greenleafs themselves that I dislike. I know the perils of blaming an entire people or country on one bad apple. No, my grievances lie with only Lord Thranduil, the pompous… arrogant—”

“He must have done something atrocious to deserve such censure,” Bilbo said thoughtfully. She didn’t know if egging Thorin on was the best course of action, but she had to learn all she could if she was going to try reconciling the families— for Tauriel’s sake if nothing else. 

Thorin took a pull of the wine. The food he left untouched on his plate. “There was a war some years ago. The filth living in the east— the so called men of the Wastes, though they resemble goblins more now— had crossed the river Anduin in our lax supervision of the borders. They made swiftly for the settlements near Moria, burning as they went. Rick, cot and tree.”

“Sounds horrendous,” Bilbo murmured softly. “When was this precisely? I don’t remember reports of such an incident.”

He eyed her ruefully. “Ah, it may have been before you were aware. Forgive me, how old…” He cleared his throat as if thinking better of the question. 

Bilbo’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought of that before. “Thorin, are you asking me my age?”

“No, I wouldn’t have the presumption to—”

And to her delight, she caught the flare of red across his cheeks before he could disguise it beneath a glass of wine. Before her giggles got the better of her, she decided to be merciful. 

“I am six and twenty, Thorin.”

“Six and twenty,” he repeated, though now she saw apprehension in his blue eyes. 

“What? Thorin, what is it?”

He did not reply.

“Thorin, surely you don’t think I’m ancient?”

“Ancient?” He coughed loudly, a drop of wine spilling over the edge of his cup. “Bilbo, you’re very young!”

“Young!” Now she knew he must be joking. “Young, indeed! I’m past marrying age.” Though his grim silence continued, and a small part of her wondered. “Thorin, you cannot seriously think me young.”

“The battles of which I speak happened fifteen years ago, and I was well of age then.”

Bilbo threw her arms into the air, uncaring. “Well, that explains why I wasn’t aware of them. So are you going to continue?”

Thorin cleared his throat, though he eyed her with wariness. “The first conflict was just to the south of the Misty Mountains at a place called Anzulzibar. We charged their main host, or so we thought, scattering them fairly easily. Beside him the King's father, grandfather, and brother fought well, with the ferocity of the Durin line. We did not know that a separate unit had split from the main and had circled around us. We were surrounded, and just barely managed to break free of the flank before they took us. My— the King— he sent for reinforcements from nearby lords. A letter passed into the Greenwood, begging Lord Thranduil’s assistance, yet in his place he sent a mere steward, a halfwit in comparison.”

“But why? Surely if his king called…”

“That’s it with the Lord of the Greenwood! He who lacks all honor, who would not heed the call of his liege, and for what? Cowardice!”

“I cannot imagine—”

“You will have to try,” Thorin cut her off with a growl. “As we’ve said, it was before your time. He was called, Bilbo, and he failed to answer.”

Bilbo swallowed her pride with a glass of water and stifled her own temper. To react beyond that would be to descend into a childish domain, though he certainly deserved a tongue lashing to insult her so. “Then,” she said icily, “what happened?”

“We engaged again, with Thranduil’s steward at the head of our other host. The man was a fool, we discovered later. He attacked too early, before the signal was given, so lost in bloodlust was he. His host fell upon the enemy early, and they were all slaughtered. The remainder of us barely managed to cleanse the land of the Men of the Wastes, but it was at a terrible price. The King's grandfather… his brother… were lost to us.”

“Oh,” Bilbo murmured softly. She reached her hand along the table, just barely touching his. But he balked and withdrew his grip as if burned.

“If Thranduil had heeded the king’s call, much would have been different that day. Which is why now, while Kili remains missing, I cannot rest. He might be ensnared into that harpy’s grasp right now!”

“Now, see here, Thorin!” Bilbo snapped, standing to her feet. “I know you are angry with the Lord of the Greenwood for what happened long ago, but surely you must realize that Tauriel had nothing to do with it. Why she was hardly able to sneak about the estate, much less do anything about your battle!”

“Ah, yes,” Thorin said as he also stood. “You imagine you know this Tauriel of the Greenwood, the ward and steward of Thranduil. Do you know that she is related to the man who lead the charge? He was her uncle!”

“That still has nothing to do with her!”

“The same blood runs through her veins!” He stepped toward her, his eyes blazing inside his skull. “The same weakness! The King's brother and grandfather were robbed of us by her line, and now his nephew, fool that he is, stumbles into her clutches!”

“That is enough!” Bilbo’s palm connected with the edge of the table so loudly that it startled Thorin. He shrunk, a fraction of the size he’d been. 

“Bilbo…”

She felt her face redden, a reaction she always failed to temper, and a wash of shame followed. Intentionally, she kept her voice level. “That is enough for today. I suddenly find myself tired. If you wouldn’t mind escorting yourself out.”

His eyes flashed, angry again. “You would dismiss me? You haven’t eaten your dinner yet.”

“I’m not hungry,” she growled. 

Thorin stared down at her, half in disbelief and half in muddied rage. She could see the battle within him and watched pride win over all. His shoulders stiffened; he drew himself up. Snatching his cloak from the back of the chair, he withdrew from the room. Bilbo knew he was gone for good when the front door slammed in his wake. 

“Miss?” Bell called from the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”

Bilbo sat to her meal in silence, took a bite of the beef, and then spat it back out. Of course, everything was not all right. 

~

“Tea’s the cure for most things, my girl,” he father had always said. “Well, that and a good trip.”

“So I suppose when we run out of leaves, we’ll be off again?” Bilbo had replied, feeling cheeky. It was a sentiment rarely felt since her mother became sick. Bungo and Bilbo kept vigil by her side most days, willing Belladonna’s health to better, yet each day instead of stronger, she waned before them like a rosebush in fall. 

That cold night, Bungo had caressed her hair, and he seemed glad for a reason to smile down at her. “We won’t run out of leaves just yet,” he’d said, and that had felt more ominous than Belladonna’s constant cough in the next room. 

Now Bilbo sat in her study, staring into the flames, with a steaming cup of tea perched in her lap. It remained untouched, and Bilbo told herself it was only to let it cool before sipping it. For some reason her melancholy felt too dark for tea, and her legs itched to move. She wondered about her father and his wandering feet. Bell always told her she was so like him, but she’d underestimated her housekeeper’s words until now. 

“Bilbo?”

She started. Sometime in her reverie, Tauriel had snuck to her side. Her long slender fingers warmed Bilbo’s shoulder, and she leaned into the touch. Guilt washed over her for forgetting poor Tauriel in her bedroom. 

“I heard raised voices,” Tauriel said as she crossed Bilbo’s chair, finding her place where Thorin usually sat. 

“Any words?”

Tauriel’s eyes grew dark. “Some about Lord Thranduil and a battle many years ago.”

“Yes, it seems the King’s feud with you might have little to do with you, my dear.”

“I cannot believe my Lord Thranduil to be a coward.”

“No,” Bilbo agreed softly. “Nor can I. Thorin was there, though, as he reminded me, and you and I were not.”

“Well, he may be Kili’s guard, but he certainly knows nothing of the Prince’s feelings,” Tauriel bit. “Kili never mentioned any such conflict to me. It obviously wasn’t enough to trouble him.”

“Kili’s uncle died in that battle, Tauriel. Perhaps he does not mention it because it is too painful.”

Tauriel swallowed, her mouth set in a determined line. “He would never have asked to marry me if it mattered.”

Bilbo felt a glimmer of relief sweep through her at the words. That was true. There was something genuine between them, untainted by the past, and even in her dark thoughts, Bilbo could always rejoice in newfound love.

“Tell me about him,” Bilbo said. “Tell me about Kili. I should like to know how you met him. How you fell in love.”

Tauriel’s ears reddened to the exact shade of her hair, and Bilbo stifled an unexpected laugh. 

“It is not a flattering story for me.”

“Come on, my dear,” Bilbo prodded. “I’m in need of a good story.”

~

Tauriel woke with the sun the day she met Prince Kili of Erebor.

The cold light of dawn barely shone through her window. Sneaking through the port was easily and frequently done. On her back, a new ivory bow lay lighter than a feather amongst its quiver of arrows. A birthday gift from Lord Thranduil, the bow was one of Tauriel’s prized possessions, and she jealously valued time with it, to the point where post-duty time wasn’t nearly enough. 

She crawled through the thicket just beyond her window in the servants’ quarter, breaking into the line of trees just beyond. Morning dew clung to her trousers and soaked the back of her neck and hair. She hadn’t much time, but her legs carried her swiftly through a well-marked path she’d laid herself in the forest. Just beyond the thickest line of trees, a clearing lay, entrenched in rich sunlight. A single pine jutted from the center of the field, where Tauriel’s target sat, riddled with holes and ready for another practice round. 

Jabbing three arrows into the ground at her feet in anticipation, Tauriel notched her first shot, eying the sun in the sky. By mid-morning she must be gone. She inhaled, letting the stretch of her muscles and the tension run through her body until she settled. 

On the exhale, she released. The arrow soared through the air and speared through the center dot on the target. Tauriel grinned and reached for her second arrow. 

“Whoa!” 

She started at the sound of another voice. Faster than a bitten cat, she spun, second arrow cocked and pointed directly at the face of a dark-haired man. At his flank a large horse shifted from side to side. 

“Sorry, sorry!” he cried, sticking his arms into the air on either side of his head and dropping his reigns. The horse limped to a cluster of weeds and bent its head to feed. 

Tauriel watched the beast go and turned back to his rider. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” 

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss, honest. But what a shot!”

“I asked you a question!”

The man grinned, arms still in the air. “Got lost.”

“Very likely,” Tauriel growled. “These are the lands of Lord Thranduil. The Greenwood. Why are you trespassing?”

“The Greenwood? I really am lost.” He lowered one hand to scratch absently at his head. His hair shuffled around his shoulders, a dark river where it wasn’t clasped into a tie.

“Hands up!” Tauriel yelled. “I asked you why you are here. I want the truth!”

“I’ve told you the truth! I’m lost. I was trying to get to the Blue Mountains, see, just beyond the Shire’s boarders. But I think I took a bit of a wrong turn in the night…”

“You certainly did!” she snorted. “The road to the Blue Mountains is miles from here. Due west.” With her bow, she pointed toward the edge of the thicket.

“I… well, I’m not the best with directions. My brother normally helps me, but I insisted on going on this trip myself. To prove I wouldn’t get lost.” He winced. 

“Stay still,” Tauriel ordered, trying not to smile or laugh at his baffled expression. “Turn around.”

He did so. “Are you going to search me, Miss? If you do, I must warn you to check my breeches. I could have anything down my trousers.”

With his back turned, Tauriel saw no need to hide her smile. She spread his legs with her foot, taking a knife from the inside of her boot and letting it rest on his spine. “Or nothing,” she murmured while she searched him.

His chuckle was deep and resonated through her like an avalanche. She found no weapons on his person. Odd. Her blade still at his back, she glanced back to his horse and saw several full saddlebags on either side of the beast’s back. Attached to one of them, a large scabbard thunked against a green, Ereborian bow. If he truly was from the Lonely Mountain and on the way to the Blue Mountains, he was very off course. A clumsy navigator and horseman. Tauriel had to school her grin. 

“Turn around,” she commanded. 

He was close enough to touch as he complied, and certainly close enough to recognize. She did in an instant, and her heart sank to her boots. 

She’d seen him one other time, when she’d accompanied Legolas to court at his coming of age. She’d been younger and so had he, yet his features were so striking she could not possibly forget. That same dark hair and eyes. He had grown tall, even taller than she, with a man’s chin speckled with a dark beard. 

He was Kili, Prince of Erebor, second in line to the throne. 

“Oh, no,” he murmured, seeing the recognition in his eyes. “You know me?”

“Y-yes!” Tauriel squeaked, all of her training gone at the force of her embarrassment. She did not know whether to bow or curtsey or throw herself to the ground. “Sorry, sir. No— Your Highness.” She looked down at her bow, still drawn, and quickly sheathed it at her side. “I cannot express how… Forgive me…”

Tauriel felt every bit as awkward as she had been as a young girl, willowy with legs too long and face too thin. She’d stumbled through lessons and towered above every boy she’d ever known, and none of them had looked twice at her. With age, she had gained surety and confidence, but all that progress fled her in an instant. Her face felt hot, and she knew she surely must look as red as a beet. 

“Miss, honestly, don’t… Ah…” She glanced up. Prince Kili’s hands were in his hair, and he stared up to the treetops as if looking for inspiration there. “There’s nothing to forgive! Honestly. I was trespassing. And you’re a good shot. And your bow. It’s marvelous!”

“My…” She looked down to her beautiful ivory bow as if it were a foreign object. “It was a birthday gift.”

“Would you like to see mine?” He scampered past her, as if just as eager as she to dispel the awkwardness. He dashed toward his horse, but the beast seemed less than inclined to go to him. As he neared, it kicked up its heels and scampered away. 

“Oh, come back here, Minty!” he called, and Tauriel wondered if this was some form of joke. Was Legolas waiting in the woods, waiting to spring out and call her a fool?

Prince Kili charged the animal, but the horse evaded him easily, kicking back further into the clearing. “Minty, honestly! There’s no need to be like that. I just need my bow.” But Minty refused to yield. 

Tauriel cleared her throat. “My Lord?” she asked. “May I?”

“Oh, she’s terribly stubborn,” he warned. 

Tauriel nodded. “I know how to catch her if you’ll allow it.”

“By all means!” 

With a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves in front of royalty, she drew her bow and notched an arrow, aiming it for the horse. 

“W-wait!” Kili called, but Tauriel released before he could do more. 

The arrow flew through the air, spiraling toward the horse, but Tauriel hadn’t aimed for the animal. At the last second, the arrow curved, directly on course, dragging the reigns from the earth and thudding them into a nearby tree. Minty bucked and neighed in surprise, but the arrow held in the bark. 

Tauriel sighed, pleased she’d made the shot. She glanced back to the Prince. “There you are, My Lord.”

But His Highness was gaping like a fish. “Very impressive!” He sprang forward, snatching Minty by the reigns and his bow at the same time. 

“I’m afraid I’m obliged to show you some of my skill. If you’ll allow?”

Tauriel, nervous though intrigued, gestured forward. The Prince grinned, his tanned face a mask of boyish joy. He dragged the bow down, fitting it with an arrow. He drew back, but the bow was so short he couldn’t fully extend.

“Forgive me,” Tauriel said before she could stop herself. “Isn’t your bow a little small for you?”

The Prince’s grin grew in size and mischief. “They say it's not the size of the tool, Lady, but what you can do with it.” And with that he unleashed three arrows in rapid succession. They screamed across the distance and pierced the target one after the other. The final arrow pierced the first right on the feather’s edge, slicing it in half. Tauriel’s eyes grew wide. 

“Let me see that!” she declared, extending her arm. The Prince handed her his bow without comment, and she blushed at her own tone. But the bow itself was magnificent! Recurved further than Tauriel’s, the bow appeared to be made of metal— or a lightweight steel of some kind— with a grip inlaid with dull emeralds. Somehow the extra ornamentation didn’t add to its weight, for with both bows in hand, Tauriel felt that her bow was the heavier. 

“This is exquisite,” she said softly. 

“It ought to be. It was also a birthday gift. From my uncle." 

"The King," Tauriel murmured, a wave of fear rising inside her.

"Bows from Erebor are shorter as far as traditional wooden bows go," he said quickly. "But the steel allows greater power in the compact shape. That's the reason I could-”

“Indeed, I could not have split one of my arrows with my bow.”

“May I?” he asked, extending his arms. Gingerly, Tauriel handed the weapon over. His eyes gleamed appreciatively over the white wood. “Very smooth. You’re able to shoot farther than I am, at greater accuracy. That’s the price of the power. The shots can go more astray at a greater distance.”

“Would you mind if—” But she stopped and held his bow back out to him, admonishing herself. She had almost asked him to use it! The presumption!

“You can shoot it!” he said, as if reading her mind. 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

"Here!” He grabbed another arrow from his pack, holding it out to her. They matched his bow in color and possessed the same metal. “They’re a little heavier,” he explained. “To hit harder. They can pierce armor at the right range.”

“Listen, um, Your Highness.” She held the arrow back, but quick as a flash, he was notching it for her. 

“Come on. It’s the least I can do. You know, for trespassing.”

Wary, she met his eyes. He grinned back at her with a boyish enthusiasm that was somehow disarming. She took the bow from his hands and squared herself toward the target. The weight was so light it felt odd, and when she drew back, the limited extension irked her. 

“Here,” he offered, and she felt his hands on her shoulders. She flushed bright red, keeping her eyes firmly on the target. “You have to hunch a little, just a little. Limit your stance. Fit the bow. Now drop your shoulders down. That’s it. Stretch now.”

This felt better. Like being a strung bow herself. But suddenly she realized the Prince’s hands were lingering on her waist, and she let the arrow fly. 

“Oh!” she gasped, shocked at her blunder. She was lucky it had struck the target at all, though it lingered on the outer edge. She hadn’t made such a bad shot in years. 

The Prince, seeming to have noticed his hands at the exact moment, withdrew. “Sorry,” he muttered, and when she met his eyes, she found him blushing just as fiercely. 

“Not at all, Your Highness,” she said stiffly. 

“Ah, Kili, please. Just Kili. It’s what most people call me, anyway. And you are?”

She swallowed a gob of nervousness. “Tauriel.” Not knowing what else to do, she extended a hand and then immediately scolded herself. A handshake. How manly! She was a maiden!

But he shuffled her bow to his other hand as quick as he could and took her hand in his. He was warm as the sun on her back, and when she met his dark eyes once more, she felt the strangest pull in her chest. “Kili,” she said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear an update! Great apologies for the delay, but I haven't abandoned this dumb thing yet! Stay with me here!
> 
> I notice a lot with these stories that with Kili and Tauriel, you never really get more into it with them, and for some reason I felt like that would be a fun thing to explore. It will tie in to the main plot line!
> 
> More to come on poor Thorin's temper, Bilbo's anxious feet, and Kili and Tauriel too!


	8. Tripped and Fell

Chapter 8 

“Meet me again,” Kili said softly. He hadn’t released her bow back into her hands just yet. He held it stiffly from one end, while she gripped it in the other. 

“Why?” she whispered. Across the clearing, their arrows shuddered in the center of the target, side by side. She was late for her duties in the main house. Her mentor, Lhosson, steward of the Greenwood Estate, would be waiting for her, yet she could not bring herself to release the bow. The pale wood creaked beneath her fingers, and it felt warm to the touch. 

“Because I want to see you.” Kili took a step forward. With the bow between them, they couldn’t touch, but she felt his presence and warmth nevertheless. A cold flash of fear pierced her, or she thought it was fear. She’d had the same feeling once hunting an elk in the forest. When the beast turned on her and attacked, the flash had been the same, prompting her to dodge, draw her bow, and fire. Impulsiveness warred with unnatural terror in her heart, and in the end she could not move, caught between the two. Like her bow in their hands. 

The Prince’s hand slid up the wooden shaft, barely brushing her fingers with his. He was warm. At this proximity, she could smell the road on his clothes, the soft forest and a hint of leather and soap. 

“Tomorrow,” she murmured, glancing up to his eyes. “A few miles east of here, just beyond the Greenwood, there is a stream. It rises with the mountain, and at the peak there’s a waterfall. Meet me there.”

“At sunset I will.” His fingers wrapped around hers. They looked large and brown, contrasting with her pale ones, and she wondered if he could feel her callouses and if they bothered him on the hands of a woman. 

“Sunset,” she replied, trying to find it within her to smile, but her heart fluttered so badly she couldn’t. 

As bad as touching him had been, his release was a thousand times worse. He inclined his head, half between a bow and a mocking salute. Now a smile came, and she returned the gesture. 

“Tomorrow! Sunset!” he said as he mounted his horse. “I’ll be there, Tauriel!” 

He galloped off into the forest, and Tauriel couldn’t move until the sun was high in the sky. When a sharp, old voice called her name in the forest, she snapped from her trance. Lhosson would not be pleased. 

~

“So we met. The next day and every day after that we could,” Tauriel said, burying herself into the fabric of Bilbo’s quilt. Her old friend had placed the blanket around her shoulders when she’d felt the cold night air against her skin, shivering. That was so like Bilbo, to see the needs of others and accommodate without a second thought. 

Her eyes were wide with wonder at Tauriel’s tale. Respectable and mundane as Bilbo always thought herself to be, she couldn’t hide her romantic nature, no matter how many times she scoffed openly at the thought. 

“Romantic!” she’d say without fail. “I’m too old for romance.” And yet whenever Bilbo looked at the portraits of her parents, painted intentionally so they looked at each other even from their separate frames, she sighed and rubbed the spot over her heart.

But Tauriel knew better than to mention it. 

“So,” Bilbo grinned. “did you tell him about yourself? About your position with Thranduil?”

Tauriel felt the customary guilt grip her, though everything was in the open now. “No,” she said gravely. “I didn’t’ mention what I was. I did not outright lie to Kili, of course! I just… well, I allowed him to deceive himself. I told him I lived in the Greenwood. Not that I served the Lord Thranduil, and I always made sure to dress my best when he saw me. I knew he thought I was a Lady or of some noble birth.” She cowered into the blanket, a fresh wash of shame darkening her cheeks. 

“He did not like to speak of his position as Prince, and so it was sort of natural that we never delved further. I only asked him once what it was like to be heir to the throne.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said something very funny. That he didn’t really want to be King, and fears for his brother.”

“But why?”

Tauriel shrugged, not fully comprehending herself. “He says he feels it might be like getting swallowed. His uncle is a little harried by the position, I suppose. They say that because he looks so like King Durin I that they will call him ‘King Durin,’ no matter his family name. Of course, this happens every few generations. It’s just tradition, but Kili says that he fears becoming like his uncle, too caught up in ruling. You know, there’s a legend that Durin I never died. And they call him The Deathless because every so often he inhabits the one who wears the crown of Erebor. They think it has happened again and so call him King Durin.”

“Fascinating,” Bilbo murmured. 

“Leave it to you to call the threat of possession ‘fascinating,’” Tauriel chided. 

“Well, I can’t help it’s interesting. The Deathless legend certainly sounds like a smart move on the Kingdom’s part. Take a man and turn him into a legend, and you have someone that anyone could follow.” 

“I suppose if you look at it that way. But does anyone think of the princes, and how troubling it could be to live up to those expectations?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Some don’t make it that far in their thinking, my dear. People will accept things as fact and move on.”

“I think it is appalling.”

Bilbo chuckled softly. “So… What happened next?” 

Tauriel blushed to her ears at the tone of Bilbo’s voice. “The night of the Firemoon.” She sighed. “Do you remember it, Bilbo? It was some weeks ago on the clearest night of the year. Kili and I took the way south, seeking a new place to test our skills against each other. We kept the mountains on our left. And there we saw it.”

~

Huge it was. It filled the night sky. Tauriel’s chest ached with wonder and curiosity as a bright ball of light streamed across the stars, a tail of red and orange fire in its wake. Beside her, Kili pulled in a breath in a similar state of distraction at the beauty. 

They sat on the edge of the Blue Mountainside, upon a miniature outcrop that broke the peak’s sloping nature. Behind them, their pair of horses, Minty and Hasufel, chomped amiably on the grass, though Minty appeared to be the glutton of the two and stole as much of the sweetest part from Hasufel as she could. The noble stallion took it in stride and grazed elsewhere. 

It was easy here, in the middle of the vast waste of the countryside between the borders of their lands, to forget who she was. To stare into the depth of the Firemoon and let the warmth course through her, like a fine wine on a winter night. 

“I’ve never seen one before,” Tauriel whispered to Kili. He sat so close that if she wanted, she could reach and take his hand in hers. “I’d heard of them from some of the servants as legends. Things that only come every hundred years or so. Some are so small that they’re gone in a blink, while others, like this one…” Tauriel could feel the spill of red light on her like the glow of a fireplace. “So large they brighten the night to day.”

“Some are afraid of such a sight,” Kili replied. He kept his voice low, as if they were sharing secrets. “That it foretells a great doom upon the land, and when they see it, they hide away in their homes until it passes. But I think it’s a sign of something else.”

Tauriel turned toward him, dragging her gaze from the Firemoon and onto his eyes. They were black as coal and burned into her, as if he’d taken the essence of the comet into his own soul. She felt as if the earth could crumble, that the Firemoon could land down upon her at that very moment, and she wouldn’t have the heart to look away. 

She leaned as close as she dare, hoping she wasn’t wrong, that this horrible pulsing in her chest was shared by this strange man. “What do think it means?” she breathed. 

She felt the brush of his warm hand on her forearm, where her sleeve gave way to her skin. “It’s a sign. A good omen. But in comparison, I suppose it’s nothing.”

“A comparison to what?”

“Tauriel.” His hand drew lightly up her arm, her shoulder, brushing her neck where she shivered at the touch, to rest just under her cheek. “I think you know.”

The distance to his lips was crossed in an instant. She pressed her mouth to his with a breathless gasp, and his arms circled her back, pressing her closer. A wondrous, overwhelming feeling pierced her heart, a fierce need to close the distance between them, to protect, to love this man. But as soon as it came, another feeling replaced it. She was lying to him. He knew nothing about her, and if he felt for her with an inkling of held in her heart for him, they were both lost. 

She pressed her hands to his chest, breaking free of his hold. 

“Tauriel?” he panted. “Have I… overstepped?”

Her guilt diminished under the weight of that stare, and she pulled him close once more, savoring the sweet taste of his mouth. He smelled of the wax of a bowstring and the sweet summer earth. Everything she adored in the world he did as well, and she had not lied about that. She could have this, she thought for a glorious moment, and moved her hands around his body, savoring his heartbeat as she pressed their chests closer. 

The dry, chasteness of their embrace diminished when Kili opened his mouth to gasp her name, and she chased it with hers. The wet slip of his tongue was unexpected but glorious, and Tauriel followed the squeeze of her heart to grip him with all her might closer, closer. 

Kili’s arms snaked around her hips, tracing the soft fabric of her tunic with his broad fingertips, and the sensation sent sparks of heat lower. 

Her arms couldn’t decide where to rest, and suddenly she was afraid if she didn’t touch every part of him now, she might never get the chance. His neck was so soft, dotted with rough stubble that trailed up to his face. He broke from the kiss from an instant to dip his head and kiss the hollow of her throat, curving his head to catch the little place between her neck and shoulder. The sensation of the hard bristles of his beard against such a sensitive place sent a shower of goose bumps down her body. She gasped, hands racing up his spine to fist in his hair. It was soft and thick as a bird’s nest, the black tresses spilling between her fingers until she reached his scalp. When he opened his mouth and brushed her skin with his teeth, she yanked hard on his hair and was rewarded with a breathless moan for her efforts. 

His teeth sank into the soft skin at her neck, and a bolt of pleasure raced from her chest down to where her thighs parted around his waist. 

“Ohh,” she sighed, unable to form a coherent sentence under his ministrations. His hands spread from her waist to her lower back, then dragged slowly toward her front. He brushed her belly, his bites growing harder with the intensity. Tauriel moaned as his hands dipped, pressing into her hips and then lower, lower. 

A sharp neigh followed by the sensation of a dry, hard nose broke Tauriel from her haze, and before she realized it, she was pushed. She and Kili tumbled from their little outcrop onto the grassy knoll below. Hasufel followed their descent, his large brown eyes narrowed in warning. 

Underneath her, Kili spluttered and laughed, his hands held aloft as if being held a knifepoint. “I apologize, Hasufel! Tauriel, if I’d known you had brought a chaperone, I wouldn’t have dared.”

“Hasufel!” Tauriel groaned, pushing the horse’s massive nose from her back, but he seemed insistent in butting his head against her until she relented, climbing off Kili in a haze of grass and twigs. She crossed her legs while her supposed loyal steed mouthed playfully at her hair. 

“I am betrayed,” she huffed, folding her arms over one another. “And no, I won’t forgive you. Why can’t you be like Minty there?” 

Indeed, the brown mare was neck deep in a couple of weeds and intent on eating the afternoon away. 

Kili crawled to her side, his face as red as hers. Laughing breathlessly, he picked twigs from her tunic. “Your hair,” he murmured, reaching up to grab a leaf from behind her ear. 

“Yours too,” she said as she brushed a clod of dirt from one of the smaller braids at his temple. “What a mess we are.”

She glanced up at the sky. The Firemoon’s glow waned in the west just beyond where the sun had already set. She shuddered against the chill of the night and a whisper of bitter, fall wind against her skin. Kili’s hand found hers, and he squeezed it. 

“Tauriel,” he whispered, drawing her eyes back to his. They were so large and glowing. There was almost nothing she wouldn’t do for them when they stared into her so. It was as if they knew everything she was and didn’t mind what lay there. “There is something I must ask you.”

“Alright,” she said softly. 

“There is to be a ball. Well, a week of balls, at Erebor. For Durin’s week. You’ve heard of it, I assume.” 

She nodded. Of course she had. Last year she had accompanied Lord Thranduil and Legolas as their valet during the celebrations, though they’d kept their distance from the palace as they did every year. 

“I normally am accompanied by my brother or my uncle,” he continued. It’s a masque, you see. Everyone arrives in a costume and half the night is spent finding your friends through the different faces, while the other half is filled with merrymaking. It’s a wonderful time. At the end of the week, there’s a parade. Would you mind accompanying me? I know it won’t be anything if you’re not there. You could meet my brother. And my uncle too. They’ll love you, I know it.”

“The— the King?” Tauriel squeaked, her throat closing at the thought. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m—” She caught herself before she could let it all escape. And suddenly she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever this was it had to end. She’d disillusioned herself into believing somehow she was enough for Kili, and even if she was, she couldn’t compare to what a kingdom needed. She was common-born, a lowly servant in the house of a great lord, and no matter what her heart said, she couldn’t change that fact. Kili couldn’t be with her. 

“I can’t,” she whispered. 

“Tauriel?”

Suddenly sitting on the grass where she’d kissed him felt like being lit on fire, and she sprung to her feet. “I’m sorry, Kili. I’m not… what you think I am.”

Only a coward turns their back on a fight, Lord Thranduil had told her once, and she felt those words sear into her very flesh and bone as she mounted Hasufel in a flash. 

“Tauriel!” Kili shouted, running after her. 

She should have said something— told him who she was, why she couldn’t be with him any longer— but the fear of his face showing the same contempt the other lords showed servants was her greatest fear. She kicked Hasufel into a fierce gallop and knew Kili wouldn’t be able to follow for some time if Minty was feeling as stubborn as always. She hated how relieved she felt at the thought. 

A hopeless coward. Disgraceful. She didn’t deserve the way he shouted after her. 

~

Two weeks later, the eve before Durin’s week, Tauriel lay flat on her back, staring up at the curving trunks of the Greenwood. Beside her, the ivory bow lay, arrows scattered around it, and she wondered if she shot one into the sky, if it would come down and land in her skull. It might put her out of her misery. 

The past two weeks had been a lesson in heartbreak. She refused to venture far from the estate, for fear Kili would be nearby searching for her. She was grateful she hadn’t told him where she lived. The Greenwood was full of lesser lords and their smaller houses, and he couldn’t possibly know she wasn’t from one of them. 

She had told no one of Kili and had seen to her duties with determined finality. This would be her lot for the rest of her days, to serve the Greenwood, to protect the family and the estate. There was no other path before her. 

Footsteps sounded lightly from the trail to her clearing, and Tauriel recognized Legolas’s sprightly gait without turning her head to see him. He didn’t say a word as he sat beside her, plucking her bow from the grass and passing his hand over the bowstring. 

“You are lost,” he said. 

“My Lord, if you are displeased with my service, tell me in what ways I can improve.”

“You have performed your duties very well, and you know it. Tauriel,” he chided, and she rolled to see him. 

Legolas was an uncanny sight, even with his legs folded and his back hunched over her bow. His eyes shone a cold blue with wisdom buried in their depths despite his youth. The light blonde hair of his father trailed down his shoulders, a golden river untainted even by a single snarl. Handsome, just a few years older than she, yet he felt somehow older, as if his life could stretch endlessly through time. His father possessed the same ethereal presence, a constant reminder that she was but a servant to greater men. She closed her eyes, feeling the pang of her shame. If she were like Legolas, would she feel herself worthy of Kili?

“Will you not tell me what has happened?” Legolas asked. 

“No. It wouldn’t ease me; I would only be filled with shame.” It was as honest as she dared be, for fear he could somehow read her mind and guess her heart’s desires. 

“What have you to be ashamed of, Tauriel? You’re the most noble and best amongst us.”

She scoffed, his good opinion only more bitter against the stark reality of the truth. That she had turned from a liar to a coward, and even now longed with all her heart that she could continue living the fantasy. Every night she dreamed of a life with Kili, holding his hand through life and fighting his battles beside him. In her worst moments, she imagined dancing with him at the Durin’s Day ball, wearing his colors, while his eyes rested on hers. The thought made her sick in the bleak light of day. 

“It will pass, Legolas,” she said softly. “Let it be for now, and soon I will be myself again.”

“What can be done…” He cleared his throat. “To make it better? Anything?”

“Unless you can sneak me into the Durin’s Day ball, I doubt it,” she mocked her own fantasy but regretted it an instant later. She had said too much. 

“The ball? Tauriel, since when have you ever cared for balls?”

“I— I don’t,” she stammered, snatching her bow from his hands. “It’s nothing but a silly fantasy. Don’t mind me.”

Legolas’s arm shot out like an adder and held her still before she could escape. How like him to read her mind.

“If you went to this ball, Tauriel, would you feel better?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me if it would,” he whispered. “Tell me honestly. I won’t need to know anymore than that. I won’t ask another question.”

“Would you help me go?” She felt the flicker of hope beyond reason. 

“I would. If it would help you.”

“I— it would.”

“Then you will go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaat? Somehow this turned really Killel really fast? First make out scene was not Thilbo? Legolas is the Fairy Godmother??? Bilbo's plot line hasn't developed at all in this chapter?? 
> 
> Tune in next time for more wacky adventures in "Where the hell is this story going?" subtitled "Weirdest Cinderella AU of all time!"
> 
> I swear, this is Bagginshield/Thilbo. Give it time!


	9. There's To Be a Ball

Chapter 9

“Legolas helped you?” Bilbo gasped. “I would never have guessed!”

“He’s my closest and greatest friend. I have hurt him with all of this, I know.” 

Tauriel and Bilbo had migrated during her telling of the events to Bilbo’s room. 

The older woman had drawn a second armchair in front of the fire, where she sat across from Tauriel, her hands gripping a cup of tea that had long ago grown cold. 

Bilbo’s room was smaller than the master bedroom, a child’s room. Tauriel had once asked about the Lord’s suite at the end of the hall, but Bilbo’s face had grown so dark that she never asked again. She guessed it had been her parent’s room before they both passed away and wondered what it must look like now. A mausoleum of their life? Or was it vacant of all decoration and left blank and empty. Even as a girl, she hadn’t the heart to sneak a peek. 

Bilbo’s chambers were warm and delightful, despite the small size. It had room for the two chairs to remain by the fireplace with the bed pushed to the far wall between its two end tables. Above their hands, a low-hanging chandelier illuminated the dual portraits of her parents. Their smirking facades matched the pair in the sitting room. 

“The hour is growing late,” Tauriel said softly. “You’re sure you want me to continue? At this rate, dawn will break, and we’ll have missed the night entirely.”

“You cannot stop me from hearing the rest of this story, Tauriel,” Bilbo warned, wagging her finger. “I’ll toss and turn all night if you stop now.”

“But you already know the conclusion. And right now, it certainly isn’t the best of endings.”

“Tell me, or I shall deny you breakfast!” Bilbo said and punctuated the statement by slamming her teacup onto the table. 

Tauriel grinned roguishly at her friend, steeling herself for the rest of her tale with a sigh. 

“At first, I thought Legolas had forgotten we had spoken about the ball at all. Durin’s week was slowly passing me by, and everyday felt like an agony. Finally, the last day of the ball came, and I thought for certain I would never go. I had resigned myself to forget about it, and to take it as a sign.” She sighed. “That it was never meant to be, and Kili and I would forget about one another soon enough. But then…” 

Tauriel’s face heated at the thought. “Legolas fulfilled his promise to me. The day of the final ball, he came to me with a single serving maid from the city and a new dress. It was gorgeous, Bilbo, silver and green with a white mask to hide behind. I was so nervous that my hands shook and I couldn’t put it round my head without dropping it. I didn’t know what I would do— if I should have to hide from Kili or if I shouldn’t go at all.”

“But, Bilbo, it was glorious. I had never been to the palace during festivities before. All the torches outside were lit and burned bright against the night sky, like beacons. When we arrived at the palace gates, Legolas remained in the carriage, and I almost stayed with him, I was so afraid. 

“‘Do what you came to do,’ he told me. ‘I will send the carriage back at midnight. That’s as long as I can keep father occupied, so don’t be late.’ He said this and forced me from the car. I hid in a pack of other ladies. Their gowns were glorious, Bilbo, wide enough that I was surprised that some didn’t have to turn sideways to make it through the castle gates!”

“And then I was inside Erebor, a lone woman in a crowd of masked faces. I was petrified.”

~

Tauriel had seen the grandeur of Erebor before on her visits with Lord Thranduil as his valet. She knew well the wide, sloping hallways, carved from living emerald it seemed. The facades of the forefathers of Erebor gleamed even in pure darkness, and with the light of the candles pouring in, the entire palace felt warm and brighter. 

Her dress flowed longer and wider than she was used to, though the white, glittering fabric laced with green vines startled even her when she’d looked into the mirror. Behind an intricately painted mask of the same color, she hardly recognized herself with her red hair all pulled up behind her neck. Only a few of the strands touched her shoulders. The shoes were the only part she disliked. High-heeled and fragile, they glistened as if made of glass and bit into her toes if she moved too quickly. Grimacing, Tauriel slowed her gait to match the other ladies in the crowd. 

She followed the line of women, blending in with their ranks and thoroughly grateful that she was masked. Even with their faces covered, Tauriel recognized a few of the visiting Ladies by voice alone. One of them, a noble of the Greenwood, the Lady Anaire, stood out in particular because of the highness of her voice. 

Once a great friend of Lord Thranduil before his wife’s passing, Anaire had been a frequent visitor to the Greenwood Estate until a few years ago, when her stays had abruptly stopped. Legolas had hinted to Tauriel that after Anaire’s husband passed, she’d had her sights set upon Lord Thranduil as a husband, but having been rejected, she severed all acquaintance. Anaire’s daughter, Aredhel, followed her mother. Cold and paler than the moon, Aredhel glanced toward Tauriel, freezing her blood, and drifted away to the rest of the crowd. 

Tauriel bowed her head, following them toward the main receiving chamber, where the King was waiting to receive guests for the ball. At the bottleneck in the doorway, Tauriel unfortunately was close enough to Lady Anaire to hear her whispered words to her daughter. 

“Don’t forget your task for the evening, my love,” she said. “Prince Fili is too high a mark for us, but Prince Kili, the second, is plausible for us to attain. Keep close to him. You must at least have one dance. Promise me you’ll do as I ask.”

Aredhel’s silver eyes gave no impression that she was even listening to her mother. She nodded sagely, taking in the splendor of the hallway. Her mother grasped her hand as they continued into the ballroom. 

“Do this, and all of this could be yours, Aredhel. You could even be queen. Think on that. Now show me your smile.”

Now Aredhel’s interest was piqued. Her sudden smile brought such warmth and life to her face that any man could be fooled. Tauriel felt cold resignation settle into her gut. She’d forgotten in all her frolicking with Kili that others might look on him as well. He had power; that was certain. And glancing around at the glory of his home, Tauriel realized that he could have any woman in the kingdom if he so wanted. She swallowed, suddenly feeling out of breath. Her beautiful dress felt like sandpaper against her skin, and she broke free of the crowd to a darkened corridor. Her breath was coming fast, and she pawed at her chest to calm the racing of her heart. 

She felt the true fool now. She’d faced bandits and robbers, wild animals and even the stray goblin-man who trespassed on the Greenwood territory. As the future steward, she knew how to fight, how to protect herself in arms for her Lord, and then she’d known no fear. And yet now, surrounded by harmless ladies in masks, she had never felt more terrified. 

This had been a horrible mistake, and she must find a way out. 

“My Lady?” 

Tauriel gasped, and with the constriction of the dress on her ribs, she suddenly realized why it was so common for women to collapse onto daybeds. A warm hand fell upon her shoulder, steadying her. 

“Miss, are you alright?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Fine. They just don’t make these dresses for breathing.” Her vision swam before her, but she remembered several calming exercises Lord Thranduil had taught her and applied them now. 

Beside her, the man chuckled. “I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid. I can breathe alright in what I’m wearing.”

Finally gaining her breath enough to stand upright, Tauriel found herself face to face with a giant crow’s head. It looked so large and absurd that before she could stop herself, she barked out a loud laugh. The man’s blonde hair peeked from behind a gaggle of black feathers, and crow’s feet sprouted like strands of hair, resting against his chest, as if the bird were roosting atop his head. 

She caught herself too late. “I don’t mean to laugh. Your costume just surprised me.”

The man, to her great relief, chuckled as well. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Something about being festive and wearing the King’s symbol. You know, Erebor still uses messenger ravens in all their communications. But look, though, here’s the best part.” Reaching his hands around the bird’s massive head, he pried the beak apart. Beyond, Tauriel spied a pair of silvery blue eyes, wrinkled in mirth, and a flash of blonde facial hair beneath his sharp cheeks. 

“So you are a man under there.” She smirked as he shut the bird’s mouth again. “How can you see?”

He shook his head, and the feathers shuddered absurdly at the movement. “Very carefully. I believe the seamstress sewed little eyeholes just under the bird’s chin. See?” He leaned a bit closer and indeed beneath more black feathers, she could just see the sparkle of his eyes. 

“Ingenious,” she said, trying not to smile. 

“Very hot, more like.”

“Well, at least I’m not the only one having some troubles with my outfit, Mr…?”

“That’s right, I haven’t introduced myself!” The man bowed, taking her hand and pressing his beak to it. “Fili, at your service.”

Laughing at the sensation of beak on her hand, Tauriel nearly let the name escape her. “You mean… High Prince Fili?”

He stilled, and Tauriel remembered the first time she recognized Kili in the forest, when he’d also been embarrassed at his rank. 

But Fili. High Prince Fili, heir to the throne and Kili’s brother. “Yes,” he said with a chuckle, confirming her worst fears. “That’s me.”

Tauriel felt the panic resurface, and the tightness in her chest returned. If she swooned, it would attract too much attention. God forbid Kili saw and came to see what the matter was. 

“I must, um,” she stammered, “return to my party. They’ll wonder where I’ve gone.”

“But you haven’t given me your name yet, Miss.”

Tauriel’s mind was so blank of anything but terror that she couldn’t possibly think of a name. “Thank you for your help. Have a good evening.”

She disentangled herself from his grasp, darting through the crowd. Checking furtively over her shoulder as she passed deep into the myriad of bodies, she was grateful he hadn’t followed. The High Prince! What horrible luck she was having already. Give her another hour, and she might just trod on the toes of the King!

The scent of freshly cooked meat hit her nostrils, and Tauriel craned her neck to find the glorious spread of Erebor arranged on a table as long as the hall itself. She darted towards it, snatching a glass of proffered wine from an attendant and hiding herself behind one of the massive columns. She downed the glass in a single swig and clutched it to her chest. This was a horrendous idea. 

But, a traitorous part of her whispered, you haven’t seen Kili yet. Even from afar, looking at him will be enough. Her selfishness battled with her panic. On one side of the ballroom, the doors remained open wide as guests filtered in and out. She could slip away now and be safe. To the other side, there was the epicenter of the crowd, the throne, and the royal family, where Kili would surely be. If she kept herself hidden in the masses, he would never recognize her. 

She kept near the buffet table, skirting drunken nobles. When she was halfway through the ballroom, servants flocked throughout the room. Their silver and blue uniforms stood out from the vibrantly colored dresses of the ladies. Tauriel watched in fascination as they systematically dimmed most of the candles in the room. A wide, green curtain at the far end of the hall parted, and in the darkness, the light of the moon shone more beautiful and silvery white than Tauriel had ever seen it before. 

She craned her neck around the other spectators, looking to where the only warm light still remained in the chamber. The throne appeared solid gold and shined like a living thing. Standing in full splendor, the King of Erebor raised a hand clad in silver armor, and all conversation ceased. Even at a distance, he appeared larger than life, unmasked and adorned with the heavy black and gold crown of Erebor. She thought of what Kili had said about Durin The Deathless, and as he was now, she understood why some might think the king to be a thing of legend. 

“My friends. We welcome you to our great halls on this festive day, Erebor’s founding day.” His voice reverberated through across the chamber, though it felt as if he didn’t speak much above a whisper. Tauriel shivered at its power and strength. “Tonight we celebrate the past and look ever to the future of our great country. We have long fought for peace and hope it remains so. In these times of blessing, let us not forget those who have sacrificed. Let us honor their memory tonight and always.” He raised a glistening wine glass. “To Erebor!”

And on cue, a bright flash of color and light exploded beyond the ballroom window. A chorus of ladies cried out in surprise, and Tauriel leaned closer to the window. Fireworks popped over the silhouetted forms of the Misty Mountains, the silver moonlight pale and wondrous in the distance. From beneath the mountain, she felt the rumble of dance music roll. All around, couples snatched each other and danced in the light of the pink, green, and blue hues of the fireworks. Their bodies twirled in a long line, black against the colors. She had never seen anything more beautiful, other than perhaps the Firemoon. 

She glanced toward the throne. She’d migrated closer in her fascination of the fireworks, and so she saw Kili quicker than she thought she would. He stood beside his brother, without mask or fine raiment, and his eyes darted over the dancers, looking beyond the light into the observers. She hid behind the pillar but kept her eyes on him. 

He was just as handsome as always, his dark hair tied back behind his shoulders. Beside him, Fili stood in his crow mask, though all his earlier mirth was gone. He also scanned the dancers as one singularly obsessed. Where his brother often broke his search to glance down at his shoes, he remained transfixed on the nobles, eyes flitting from one person to another with bloodhound-like tenacity. Tauriel knew the look of a keen hunter and ducked further beyond the wall. Was he searching for her? Her blood chilled at the notion. 

He could not have known who she was, even if Kili had described her. She was masked, for goodness’ sake! She watched Fili lean close to whisper something in Kili’s ear. His brother nodded as Fili embraced him then stepped off the raised platform into the crowd. Tauriel watched him claim a partner from the myriad of waiting ladies and breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she was his sweetheart. But she couldn’t keep her eyes off Kili for long. 

He looked perhaps as wretched as she felt. She knew the distant longing in his eyes as well as she knew her own soul, and it took all her willpower not to reveal herself immediately and end his agony. Was he thinking of her as madly as she thought of him or did other troubles ail him? 

Tauriel was so fixed on Kili that she didn’t see Miss Aredhel approach him until it was too late. She dipped into an elegant curtsey, that winning smile trained on Kili. He looked startled by her less than coy expression. She spoke, and Tauriel spied the subtle swish of her hips and how she positioned her arm across her waist, drawing Kili’s eyes to the diamonds sewn into the line beneath her bust. 

Clever girl. Tauriel watched, her heart sinking low just above her stomach, and she regretted downing that wine glass earlier. Aredhel bowed once more, and Kili jumped, offering her his arm. 

To Tauriel’s horror, they made their way slowly to the dance floor. Another dance tune flitted up from the very stones it seemed, and Aredhel placed her bare hand precariously close to Kili’s as they danced. Her other arm rested just shy of touching his neck. Kili smiled down at her as the dance began, and they moved as a single, flowing entity. Aredhel’s light curls leapt out in startling contrast to Kili’s dark solidity, and they looked a perfect picture because of it. When Kili’s eyes drifted from her face, Aredhel was as cold and remote as a distant star but no less lovely. Tauriel felt the clench of jealousy in her heart. If she’d been born in the same place as Aredhel, it could be her on Kili’s arm. She wouldn’t have to stand alone in the dark, while another woman lived the greatest wish of her heart. And as Kili tentatively placed a large brown hand over her waist, Tauriel felt true despair. 

They twirled elegantly with the beat of the dance. Aredhel abandoned all pretense, staring unabashedly into Kili’s eyes. They closed the distance between them in accordance with the dance, and as he lifted her into the air, Aredhel planted her hand against his shoulder, guiding her body closer to his as she slid down. 

Tauriel’s fist collided with the pillar. Consumed as she was with the sight, she didn’t have the presence of mind to watch the dancers around her. One of them misstepped and knocked into her back. 

“I beg your pardon,” Lady Anaire said, her voice high and bubbly. On her arm was a much younger man, whose wolfish gaze didn’t leave Anaire long enough to spare Tauriel a glance, which was just as well because Lady Anaire stared enough for the both of them.

Her sharp eyes perused her up and down, settling on Tauriel’s eyes. “Do I know you, young lady?”

“Not at all,” Tauriel said, bowing her head low. With Anaire obscuring her view, she could no longer see Kili and the lady’s daughter.

“No need to stand on the rules of the masque,” she said as she removed her own mask. Without the additional layer, Tauriel saw the care and subtle wrinkles in her skin that made her no less lovely, though they added more severity to her gaze. “See? We can all know who we are.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know you,” Tauriel said, bobbing her head again before making her escape. She felt Lady Anaire’s hot scrutiny on her back as she retreated into the crowd and knew the moment she returned to her partner and the dance. 

That was too close, Tauriel thought, feeling sick. 

“I see I’m not the only one you’ve been avoiding tonight.” 

Caught again! Tauriel couldn’t catch a break, and before she could run away, High Prince Fili’s grip on her arm stopped her. 

“Sorry about this,” he said grimly. Drawing his free hand back, he removed the bird mask. His blonde hair tumbled past his shoulders, and she recognized Kili’s noble brow in his countenance. Despite their different coloring, she could tell instantly that the Durin line was connected by more than just disposition but looks as well. “I think you’re someone my brother’s been searching for.”

“I’m not!” she said too quickly, too defensively. “I don’t know Kili— the Prince!” Tauriel swallowed her panic, grappling with Fili’s fingers to release her. “Let me go.”

But the Prince shook his head and maintained his grip. “I know its you, Lady of the Greenwood.”

The word lady felt like a slap. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t tell him that I’m here. He can’t see me.”

“Far be it from me to disappoint a beautiful woman,” Fili said. “But I’m afraid I made another promise tonight.”

He lifted his eyes over her shoulder, and his grip on her hand went just a little bit tighter to keep her from dashing away. She heard heavy footsteps behind her. 

“Tauriel?” 

His voice calling her name sent a pang straight to her heart, as it always did, and she looked pleadingly up at Fili. “You’ll save him from more grief if you let me go.”

He bowed low over her hand, but still turned it away from himself. She watched his warm fingers slide against hers until they met with another hand that she recognized immediately. They were rough hands, like hers. They’d trained with a sword, drawn a bow, and held her face tenderly beneath the gaze of a Firemoon. 

She looked up, finally, and found Kili there, his eyes as open as they’d ever been. She was taken aback by the expression. She’d expected anger, rage even, not such open fondness. In front of his brother, she blushed. 

“You came,” he said softly. “Even when you said you wouldn’t.”

“I… couldn’t help it. I wanted to, but…” She suddenly knew what she must do. Before he got carried away, before he felt like this was a sign they could be together. She steeled herself for his hatred but reasoned that if she truly cared for him, he deserved her honestly. “Kili—”

Behind him, Tauriel caught a flash of white movement and wondered where Miss Aredhel was if Kili stood before her.

“Dance with me.” 

“What?”

He gripped her hand. “Dance with me. Once, please, while the music is still playing.”

“Kili, I have to tell you something.”

“Tauriel. Amralime.” Vaguely, she recognized Erebor’s ancient tongue, and Kili bent and kissed her fingers so tenderly that she felt dizzy at the touch. 

“I don’t know what that means,” she whispered. 

“I think you do.” He kissed her hand again. “Dance with me.”

And she couldn’t refuse. His request echoed the deepest desire of her heart. Following his outstretched hand, she remembered her secret dreams in the dark hours of the night. The reality struck as more startling, singularly drawn to how Kili looked in the dim light of the fireworks and how his voice sounded amongst the distant harps and voices of his kin. 

His arm extended, leading her to the center of the dance floor, and as if on cue the music slowed to a deep, pulsing rhythm, intimate and romantic. He drew her closer till they were pressed chest to chest, their clasped hands between them over their hearts. 

“Kili,” she said, warning him. Her eyes cast about the room, hoping they weren’t drawing attention. “Please, let me tell you—”

He pulled her closer, stopping her words on the tip of her tongue. “I’m a coward. I cannot bear to hear you don’t want to be with me, Tauriel. If it must come to that, let me have this. Please.”

“It’s not that. I just have to—” She stopped herself, suddenly registering his hand on the small of her back, the other still wrapped around hers. This might be the last time she could hold him as if he belonged to her, the only time she might be seen with him in public. 

Oh, I’m the true coward, she thought, closing her eyes and pressing her lips to his shoulder. I will burn for this. She wrapped her free arm around his back, leaning into his strong frame like a lifeline. They swayed, beyond the time of the dance. 

“Tauriel,” Kili whispered, and she craned her head to see his face. He smiled down at her, leaning close, and before she could think otherwise, she stretched upward to give him a long, slow kiss. 

“How DARE you!” A shrill scream broke the revelry. The music ceased, and even the fireworks died in the air, stopped by Lady Anaire’s outraged cry. 

She stood before the assembly, her daughter a shadow by her side, with her finger pointed at Tauriel like she were some rat lodged in the pudding. 

“Lady Anaire,” Kili cried. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Indeed!” Another, greater voice called from beyond the crowd. Tauriel’s heart seized as King Durin stepped upon the platform where his throne lay. He stood like a thundercloud, and his eyes flashed at the disturbance in his revelry. They bore deep into her very soul, searing her with fear. She jerked away, but Kili held her hand fast in his.

Lady Anaire bowed low to the king, her head nearly touching her knees. “Your Grace, forgive my interruption. But I am beside myself with worry for your nephew, Prince Kili.”

“Why?” the King snapped. 

“Because he has been had!” And with that Lady Anaire snatched the mask from Tauriel’s head and tore it from her head. She flinched as all the pins in her hair ripped free with the mask and tumbled down to the floor. Her hair flowed down bright red against her back, a distinctive color. Some of the nobles looked on in bafflement, while others recognized her instantly. They held their hands to their lips. Suddenly exposed, Tauriel felt as naked as the day she was born. 

“This woman,” Anaire declared, spinning this way and that so all could hear her, “is a fraud! She is common born and nothing more than a valet to Lord Thranduil of the Greenwood!”

The rest of the crowd gasped in horror.

“Common born!” someone cried. 

“The Greenwood?” the king bellowed, and the very halls shook at his voice. 

But Tauriel spun, looking up to Kili and the barefaced shock she saw there. 

“Tauriel,” he said quietly. “You’re a valet?”

“I’m being promoted to steward.” She replied stupidly. She wanted to say something else, to grab him and tell him she never meant to deceive him. The gasps and outraged exclamations of the populace were mere pricks in comparison to the dumbfounded blankness of Kili’s face. Would anger follow? Would contempt and hatred?

“Kili…”

“Seize her!” 

She spun, the King filling her vision as he stormed toward her. She’d never felt greater fear in all her life as the crowd parted like a sea against his sheer size and magnetism. In his cold eyes she saw Durin The Deathless. 

Lord Thranduil had never taught her to run from a fight. When his instruction had begun when she was a girl, the first thing he’s said was to be brave, even in the face of great danger. 

“But,” she remembered him saying with a quirk to his mouth, “there’s no shame in a strategic retreat. When you do that, though, you’ll have to act fast. Take the enemy by surprise.”

In the corner of her eye, Tauriel saw the rustling of the king’s personal guard, their helmets gleaming in the candlelight. But they were held up by the myriad of dazed bystanders. 

Beside her, the buffet table lay open from all pedestrians, and at its tail lay the gates to the courtyard. In the distance, the bells or Erebor tolled midnight. She flicked her gaze back to Kili, still stupefied. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Meleth nin.”

Behind her, a silken rope dangled within arms reach. It lead up to the curtain beside the wide window. Tauriel leapt high into the air, using her superior balance to haul herself onto the long table with a crash. Her shoes almost felled her, but she kicked them off, missing Lady Anaire’s face by a breath as she plummeted down the table’s length at full force. 

“Stop her!” she heard the king shout to his guards, who had broken free of the crowd. They closed around the end of the table, ready to seize her when she landed. 

Tauriel threw herself mightily, hoping her dress wouldn’t snag on the pointy ends of the guards’ helmets and cause her to fall, but somehow it didn’t and she landed just beyond their reach. 

“Miss!” she heard from her left. Suddenly Prince Fili was at her side, grabbing her hand in his and tearing with her down another hallway. “I know another way. Follow me.”

They dashed down the hall. The confines of the dress started to hurt, and Tauriel hoped she wouldn’t faint before she reached the carriage. They darted behind another series of thick, velvet curtains. Tauriel gasped as she saw nothing but a blank wall beyond. 

“Another way to get caught?” she accused.

But Fili slapped his hands against one of the stone squares, and suddenly the wall gave way, opening to a dark hallway beyond. 

“This way,” he said, grabbing her by the hand and leading her down a dark set of stairs. Only a few candles illuminated the steps, and Tauriel would have stumbled over the end of her dress had Fili not been there to catch her. They reached another blank wall that Fili opened with two guttural words in Erebor’s old tongue. And then the cool night air hit Tauriel with a flash. Her feet pricked on the stone causeway, some of the sharper ends digging into her soft soles and cutting them open. 

“Your feet,” Fili gasped. 

“My carriage is that way!” Tauriel pointed to where Thranduil’s two other valets waited atop the car. She recognized Lhosson inside. He opened the door wide for her. “Make for the path out!” she cried.

Lhosson gestured to the men, who spurred the horses to a gallop. Tauriel and Fili didn’t have to run the rest of the way. Tauriel glanced behind her, finding a score of armed guards and curious party-goes in their wake. Fili snatched her by her hips and lifted her into the seat of the still-moving carriage. 

Barely able to catch her breath, she yelled back to him, “Thank you! I’m sorry!”

His blonde hair scattered wildly across his shoulders in the windy night and she watched his disappear as the cart turned with the path. 

Barefoot, mask stripped, hair tumbling down onto her sweat-soaked shoulders, Tauriel had never felt lesser. Especially when, glancing behind her, she saw the guests of the Lord of Erebor file onto the courtyard, with Kili at their helm and staring after her. 

“Dare I ask?” Lhosson said beside her. 

Tauriel could not help the tears that fell from her eyes. “I beg you not to.” He held her hand and as she cried, the carriage spirited them back to the Greenwood. 

Of one thing she was certain: she would likely never see Kili again. 

~

Tauriel was surprised when the next morning, no word came from Erebor. She waited without breath for soldiers to charge the gates, demanding that she be turned over. Days passed, and still no one came for her, and she realized that while humiliating and heart-breaking, she may not have actually broken any law of the country and so was left to her own devices. She might have felt relief if her heart did not moan the loss of Kili. She felt his absence as sharply as a knife’s point in her chest. The day after the ball, Legolas was assigned to duties in the north of the forest and couldn’t take comfort in his presence or even thank him for arranging her night at the ball.

Granted, the whole affair ended worse than she could have ever imagined. Now she was caught between lethargy and white hot fear, from her broken heart and the suspicion that the King may want to still avenge himself on Kili’s behalf. She lay awake every night, haunted by the King’s piercing eyes. 

The following morning found Tauriel listless and dried out, the same feeling she got when she drank too much wine and not any water before bed. Every muscle protested as she dragged herself from her chambers. 

Lord Thranduil requested her presence in his chambers after she sifted mindlessly through her morning duties. If her training taught her anything it was to continue working no matter how she felt, and a part of her drew solace in the routine. She could still do this, accomplish this, her true purpose in life. 

“Tauriel,” Lord Thranduil said as she opened the door to his study. He sat like an iceberg, still and pale, at his desk. Before him a single note lay on the table, and with a sinking heart Tauriel recognized the seal of Durin on the front. He glanced at her as she closed the door behind her. 

“Do you know what this is before me?” he asked, a dark eyebrow raised. 

She swallowed, her nerves already so frayed that she nearly shook. “No, My Lord.”

“It’s an invitation to the King’s Day Parade. Isn’t that the strangest thing? I haven’t received an invitation to one of Erebor’s festivities in years. Why would they do such a thing now?”

Tauriel’s blood ran cold, wondering if beyond his gaze lay recognition or simple curiosity, though he was impossible to read. 

“Do we dare attend?” he asked with a wry smile, glancing back down to the sheet. Realization dawned on Tauriel. He didn’t know. That note held nothing more than an invitation, but dare she go? Of course not. 

“Do as you will, My Lord,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “As it fits your desires.”

“You’re awfully polite today, Tauriel.” Thranduil rose from his chair, crossing the plush carpet with near-silent steps and raising his angular hands to her cheeks. “Are you well?”

“Perfectly, My Lord,” she said, unable to meet him in the eye. 

He sighed. “Tauriel, if you’re fighting a cold again, I would have you rest. Last time you fainted, remember? That was quite a shock.” His tone was so light that she knew she was meant to laugh or smile at the memory, but she could bring herself to do neither. 

“I am well. I swear it.”

“Then I suppose if you can accompany me to the parade. We’ll venture to the Shire borders. That’s the closest the route extends to our borders.” He paused, a contemplative finger over his lips. “Perhaps we ought to visit Lady Baggins once we’re done. I haven’t seen her since…” He trailed off as he always did when thinking of the late Bagginses. “What do you think of that?”

Tauriel bowed and Lord Thranduil sighed his dismissal. As she prepared for their departure, Tauriel felt true fear. The King may pass by, may spot her in the crowd. She must hide. Before they left, she stole into her chambers and donned her thickest cloak, despite the hot sun in the sky. 

She was grateful for the ride, though. As Lord Thranduil’s valet, she could sit atop the carriage with the driver, her bow secured at her back in case of any thieves hiding in the woods. She wished for once that some highwayman might attack them. If that happened, she could not only stretch her limbs in dispatching him, but that might impel Thranduil to turn back home. 

They crossed the borders of the shire, the cool breeze ghosting through Tauriel’s hair. She raised the hood of her cloak about her head, shy of the crowds and remembering how naked she had felt in front of the gaze of the nobles. The Shire, to her relief, was filled with more common folk than the upper class, and though everyone was dressed in full festival attire, with brightly colored ribbons and pretty lace, she couldn’t spy any of the lush fabrics of the nobility. 

“We’re nearly there, My Lord,” Tauriel reported to Thranduil as they approached a good spot to attend the parade. It was just before the doors of an inn called The Bannered Mare, and Tauriel ducked inside to secure a place in front of the façade for Thranduil to await the King’s procession. Two other servants detached from the carriage and arranged a lounge area with a shade against the sun for Lord Thranduil before he disembarked from the carriage and sat.

Distantly, Tauriel heard the trumpet sound, and all around them, the Shirefolk cheered and threw flower petals into the wind. 

If she hadn’t been so terrified, Tauriel might have found the parade delightful. Erebor’s stern drums beat the gait of the line and the crowd stamped cheerfully along, while they threw flowers, beads, and streamers high into the air. By the time the first of the procession, a regiment of the King’s soldiers in Durin blue, crossed them, the whole air was filled with music and streamers. 

Beside her, Lord Thranduil stood from his seat, observing the festivities with his customary frown in place. She knew he must be perturbed by the invitation, and Tauriel dreaded that it had something to do with her. What if the King meant to publicly shame her here in the Shire, where even the common masses could see her disgrace?

“My Lord,” Tauriel said, turning to Thranduil. “Allow me to get you a refreshment.”

“Nonsense, the King’s party is nearly here,” Thranduil said. “You’ll not want to miss the Line of Durin turning their noses up at me, Tauriel. It will be quite a sight.”

“I beg you,” she whispered fervently, and that granted her Thranduil’s full attention. “Let me get you something. Only… I would not see you parched in the sun, My Lord.”

Thranduil’s keen gaze was suspicious and all too knowing, and Tauriel remembered too late where Legolas got his keen intelligence. She bowed her head to avoid his gaze. 

“Very well,” he said softly, and she didn’t have time to even thank him before she dashed away, pulling her hood back over her hair. 

The Bannered Mare’s keeper stood in front of a wide, wooden stall brought out for such occasions as these. Shirefolk of all kinds took advantage of the convenience of food and drink, and the line to the stall was quite long. The inn keeper, seeing Tauriel, waved her above the rest, and she quickly ordered several drinks and luncheon to her lord’s place beside the road. 

That task done, Tauriel buckled the clasp of her cloak tight over her neck and stood behind the stall. Her view of the road was so obscured that she felt safe for the first time that afternoon. There was no way the King would spot her out here. 

As if on cue, the music boomed loudly over the Shire’s fields, the Durin theme pounding in Tauriel’s very skull. She hunched behind the stall, watching as the royal procession passed. A series of high-ranking nobles passed in their chariots, including the King’s advisor, Lord Balin, who Tauriel remembered from her time arranging Legolas’s audience with the king. Tauriel recognized the High Princess, the Lady Dis, Kili’s mother, high on a white horse. She was a remarkably tall woman, hair the same shade as her eldest son and rolling in waves down her back. Atop her head a golden circlet glittered in the light of the sun, and though they must have been marching for hours, she didn’t appear warm or uncomfortable. She nodded to those in the crowd who threw flowers and bowed low. 

Then came the King, elevated above the rest on the tallest horse she had ever seen, black as night though calm in the face of a roaring crowd. King Durin was a wall of shimmering armor, and his stern face sent Tauriel’s heart fluttering with nerves. She secured her green hood further over her face, though his impassive eyes didn’t even glance in her direction. As he passed she breathed a small sigh of relief. 

Then came the princes. They rode side by side, in less formal attire than the king but no less handsome. Fili’s long hair was bound in a long tie at the top, while a bottom layer flowed free over his shoulders. His brown jerkin, lined with wolf fur, accented his warm coloring, reminding Tauriel how some whispered him to be the Lion Prince. Looking into his eyes, she found the same hawk-like glare she’d seen on the night of the ball, though she couldn’t see what arrested his attention. He nudged his brother, and the Second Prince kicked his horse just a little in front of his brother’s, and for the first time in weeks, Tauriel laid eyes on Kili. 

He looked well. For that she was grateful. To her surprise, his hair was bound in twin braids on either side of his head, while the rest lay flat and combed. It was a contrast to how he normally left it wild about his face. He wore darker leather than his brother, the collar and belt interlaid with a geometric pattern, and she wondered why he’d made such an effort. It wasn’t like him to fuss over his clothes even for special occasions. 

Kili’s dark eyes were set fiercely, following Fili’s gaze, and Tauriel realized in stark terror that they both were looking down at Lord Thranduil. Tauriel stood transfixed as they both stopped, and Fili held his brother’s reins while Kili dismounted. She watched Lord Thranduil’s surprised bow as the Second Prince approached him. Kili didn’t return the bow as he glanced around Thranduil, obviously not seeing what he expected. Not seeing Tauriel. 

Kili leaned close to Thranduil and said something, but she was too far off to hear. She watched shock play across her Lord’s features. 

The King, realizing his nephews had disembarked from the procession, raised his voice so even Tauriel could hear. “Kili! Get back on your horse!”

But Kili did not move, his eyes boring into Thranduil’s in obvious rage. The procession, not knowing what to do now that their King had not continued on, stopped playing music and soon their steps halted altogether. 

“Kili!” the High Princess called to her son. 

“I asked you, where is she?” Kili all but yelled at Thranduil, and with the music stopped, Tauriel could hear perfectly. 

“Where is who?” Thranduil exclaimed, baffled. 

“Tauriel!” Kili glanced around Thranduil as if he were hiding her under his chair. “Are you keeping her hidden? Have you banished her? Where is she?”

“She’s…” Thranduil glanced around, his eyes searching. She knew the moment he found her. With her eyes, she begged him to look her over and shook her head for emphasis. 

Thranduil’s gaze hardened. He turned back to Kili. “What business have you with her, Princeling?”

“That’s between me and her.”

Behind Tauriel, she heard a movement, the flicker of a yellow dress. She turned and recognized Matilda Proudfoot, a distant relation of Bilbo’s and a glutton for dramatics. 

She knew the instant Matilda recognized her. 

“Please,” she whispered, but it was too late. 

“Here, Lord!” Matilda cried, waving her hand. “She’s here! Tauriel of the Greenwood!”

Tauriel felt all the eyes of the Shire descend upon her, even the King’s though he seemed either too stunned or too angry to react. The only one who moved was Kili, and the crowds parted before him. 

Tauriel wanted to flee, but her legs couldn’t move. She’d done enough running, hadn’t she? She ought to accept his anger, her punishment. She wondered if it would feel better to be dealt a sentence rather than living empty for the rest of her days. 

Kili’s dark eyes were filled with wrath. He stormed up to her, and for once she saw his height as imposing rather than comforting. He towered over her in his anger. 

“You ran,” he accused. He seemed to war within himself before taking a steeling breath. “You lied to me.”

“Yes, I ran. And I lied.”

“Was everything a lie, Tauriel?” he asked fiercely. “My uncle claims you are a spy sent by Thranduil to ensnare me, to secure yourself a place in the line of Durin. Is that true?”

“Look at Lord Thranduil. Is that the face of a schemer?” 

Kili did as asked and they both looked at her master. Thranduil’s face was drawn and pale, worried for Tauriel, and she might have felt warm at his affection if she could feel anything but the pinpricks in her eyes and the fear that shook her very bones. 

“He knew nothing. It was all me— my selfishness. I did not want you to look at me like I was beneath you. I just wanted you to see…” She didn’t finish, glancing off to keep her emotions in check. She had never cried publically and she was unwilling to begin now, even in the face of her own shame. 

“Tauriel,” Kili said softly, “did you ever love me?”

“Love you?” Tauriel cried. “Love you? I am in agony!”

Kili flinched, but Tauriel felt the dam within her breaking. 

“I’ve made a fool of myself! A servant with a prince! A year ago I would mock any who could suggest such a thing, and yet stupidly, I knew you. You’re like a spore, Kili, and with every day that passes you infect me! Love you? I am weary of that word, of feeling it so deep inside my bones that when you’re not beside me, I feel ill. Love you? You are a plague, and the Valar help me, but I am dying to be sick again. When you met me, you wanted me to know you as a man, as a being, and I only wanted the same. My deception ate my soul and poisoned all my happiness with you, but I had to… had to anyway, because of what you are to me. Love you, Kili?”

She met his eyes, and they were so open and filled with glassy tears that a spark of hope flashed within her. 

“Of course, I love you,” she whispered so only he could hear. And she might have continued, began her apologies. She might have remembered to bow before him or to beg her feet to move so she could flee. But he caught her hands in his and suddenly he was on his knees. 

“Kili!” she gasped. 

“Tauriel.” He squeezed her fingers. “I love you, and I won’t live another day without you. Marry me.”

“Yes.” 

He surged to his feet and suddenly she was in his arms and his lips were on hers. Distantly, she heard the crowd shriek, though from delight or sheer horror she couldn’t tell. 

“Kili!” a voice boomed over the crowd, and Tauriel saw the King dismount from his horse, bearing down on them. 

But Kili’s hand wrapped around hers and in his eyes was that delighted spark that had first snared her. “Tauriel, I think we should run.”

She spotted a small path just beyond the stall of the Bannered Mare and a horse waiting, saddled, and ready beyond. “Follow my lead, your highness!”

“Lead the way, valet!” he crowed as she leapt onto the stall’s counter top. They charged down the wooden planks and she leapt first onto the back of the horse. When Kili landed behind her, wrapping his large hands around her waist, she kicked the horse into a full-speed run, the cries of the crowd echoing in their wake. 

But Tauriel didn’t hear them. She only felt Kili’s warm body pressed to her back and the tingles down her spine as he kissed her neck. They rode at breakneck speed past the borders of the Shire into the wild where they wouldn’t be easily traced. 

~

“And the rest, as they say, is history,” Tauriel finished. 

Bilbo clapped her hands together so loud that they echoed all throughout her room and christened the rising sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So there's that. Totally a divergence from Bilbo, but yeah, there it is. At least it was long though, right? Hehe. Next chapter will have my dear Bilbo and Thranduil's confrontation as well as (gasp) Thorin! Babyyyyy.
> 
> Also, I'd like to answer the question as to the kind of universe this is. I imagine this as an AU where Dwarves, Elves, Orcs, and Hobbits are races of the past that has fizzled down to be only one race but with similar distinctions among them. But mostly everyone is human and is of human size and strength.


End file.
